Reminder: You Can't Take It With You

It's funny how attached I am to my stuff.

Moving out fo my dorm was a slightly traumatic experience for me. As I watched my father and brother help lug my multitudes of stuff out of my dorm and into the van, I had a really hard time. I was really protective of my stuff. My posters and pictures and clothing and shoes and computer and books and all the other random stuff I'd collected over the course of a year at school.

Partially, I was just awestruck by all the stuff I had accumulated, but I also was neurotic about how it was handled and packed and stored. And I'm not saying I was being completely irrational; of course, this is stuff that I care about, stuff that I don't want ruined. But it bothered me that I was so obsessed with things. So obsessed withhow my stuff was treated to the extent that I did not end the night very happily.

I mean, after all, it was all only stuff. Shouldn't I care more about people? Shouldn't I put my energy into things that are vastly more important than my eight pairs of flip flops and 75 books that I brought home from my dorm? Well, shouldn't I?