The tyranny of stuff. And creepy voicemails.

Moving is a process that makes you acutely aware of the sheer amount of stuff you have.

The thing about stuff is that at one point or another, the stuff you have inevitably becomes the stuff you need to get rid of.
Unless you die. Then that stuff becomes someone else's problem. And that's an even bigger problem, because some stuff has a lot of emotional significance, and when you die and leave someone else your stuff, some of that emotional significance gets passed on with it.

Why do we put so much emotional stock in stuff? Specifically, furniture.

The Times ran a piece that did some time on the most e-mailed list about the perils of inheriting furniture. Oftentimes, you're stuck with it, because to a lot of people, the person from whom you got the furniture (or ugly portrait or whatever) lives on in that stuff, and getting rid of it would be like getting rid of *them*.

My herirloom furniture, which is pretty much all of it, was all wanted furniture (of good quality too), and I have so damn much of it that getting rid of a few things isn't cutting any one person's material memory out of my life. Also, it's kind of comforting having such a variety of passed-on stuff here. I've got stuff from both parents, both sets of grandparents, my sister, my house on menomonie street, hell, even my ex-boyfriend.

And that will still be the case after I downsize a little bit, but it's been kind of a struggle to prepare myself to get rid of a few things I won't have room to take with me when I move on tuesday. I'm still struggling with the economic guilt of essentially giving away some good stuff, but the flip side of that is on Craigslist there are plenty of other people in the same situation, so it *is* possible to get good stuff for cheap here.

And the fact that I'm blathering on about this is proof of my point. It's just stuff. Sentimental value is a social construction. Don't let it imprison you.

And another point: If you're moving here, bring as little as possible.
(That said, I wouldn't trade my living room furniture and big comfy bed for a teeny studio on the upper west side. I'm a midwestern girl and I need my space.)

Now that you've made it through that rant, you need to listen to this. A woman named Olga got hit on by a man named Dmitri. They talked for about two minutes, she gave him her business card (probably to get him to go away). These are the messages he left her.