I look around my room now with the eye of someone who soon needs to fit all their belongings into one duffel bag, and it (my room) appears and looms before me like a giant, papery metallic plastic sharp-edged inanimate-object-orgy. Why do I own a mug that says 'Time for Campbell's Soup' when I HATE Campbells Soup - was, in fact, brought up to hate it, to prefer at least Progresso but preferably Grandma's nightly concoction? What are two printers doing facing each other across twelve feet of cluttered floor, neither of them connected to anything else except the dust gathering on the rug? And, two words: hair chopsticks. A few more words, actually: Hawaiian Ginger Solid Yellow Perfume Chunk.

There is a large box attached to my speakers - is it a subwoofer or just a large box that I can carelessly disconnect with no ill effects? What, exactly, are gauchos? Why are none of my clothes in the dresser? Because the dresser is broken! But I still own it. It still takes up an entire corner of my room. I am typing on a fancy desk. It is not my desk. It became mine when its previous owner was too lazy to take it. But now it is my responsibility. It and it's foldy-out drawers that I don't use, and it's retractable writing surface that is jammed and useless even if I were to use it, which I wouldn't. My point is, I OWN STUFF, and I don't want to. I need my computer, sort of, and cloth to cover my nakedness. I need food, and either a roof or some Deet-drenched mosquito netting, either way. What would happen if suddenly I didn't have my old tahini-smelling ugly orange-striped work shirt, or found myself without Cooling Cream Eyecolor, or became lacking in sets of multicolored paper clips? I'm sure I don't have to answer that question for you.