May 18, 2010 • 10:52 PM 0
Today, I began the arduous task of cleaning up my room.
Well, maybe not the whole room, but the closet anyway.
Over the past several years, it has become evident that I simply have too much stuff.
There is a running joke in my family, about how my dad is a pack rat.
It’s gotten to be such a prevalent aspect of our family dynamic, that at one point, my mom and brother pasted a newspaper comic on our garage that pretty much sums up what’ll happen when my dad stops coming down for breakfast:
Thankfully, my brother has used his experience of growing up surrounded by this behavior as a means by which to avoid copying it all costs.
I, however, was neither as fortunate, nor as intelligent to take such preventative measures.
Turns out, I am indeed my father’s son.
In cleaning out my closet, I stumbled across a great deal of crap, as well as a few hidden treasures, many of which were originally my brother’s.
An example of the latter being Battle Damage T-800 from Terminator 2: Judgement Day.
Anybody Remember Eek! The Cat?
That show was THE SHIT.
Among the crap, we’re a pile of Crash Bandicoot action figures.
Honestly, I don’t know why I had these, or ever wanted them for that matter.
My guess is, it was that goddamn Crash Dance:
Allow me to be serious for a minute.
From age 9 to 11, I was a sick kid.
I had some sort of inner ear/stomach illness that caused a serious imbalance in my equilibrium, basically making me feel like I was on a boat all the time.
I swear, anybody makes an Andy Samberg joke and ‘imma tear their fuckin’ head off, and shit down their stump.
During this time I would throw up several times a day and generally feel like shit.
I did okay in school, but I was absent a lot.
Because of this, I spent a lot of time at Virginia Mason hospital in downtown Seattle, which was consequently, pretty close to the International District.
Every now and again, my mom would treat me to a gashapon as sort of a “get well” gift.
Even after I got over my illness, I went out of my way to spend my own money on those same gashapon for several years.
After negotiating my way around boxes of Star Wars cards and high school logbooks, as well as the occasional rubber band gun, I finally managed to clear a space for my massive tower of plastic bullshit:
Had I any friends to handle the camera for me, I would’ve stood in the photo to give a sense of scale, but just so you know, that’s about chest high on me.
Oh yeah, and did I mention that Gundam Tower has a sequel?
Well, it does.
That one is what I call Mini Gundam Tower.
The Gundam Towers have horizontal cousins thought, about 3-4 of them I think.
Okay, maybe that’s more like 5-6, but whatever.
Anyway, this has been a truly pointless post, I’m sorry if I wasted any of your time.
I know I wasted mine this time around.