I hate stress, and usually I don't have a whole lot of it in my life. Or at least, I try not to let it consume me. When I do, my fix-it plan is usually digging a hole and hiding in it (ostrich, much?). Today, I'm cleaning... Yeah, it's that bad. This grandmaster plan of mine to buy a house has seriously got me looking around our apartment, considering what it's going to take to actually move to a new house no matter how great it is. Do y'all know how much shit one can accumulate in a matter of 14 years? See, that's how long I've rented at the same address. That's a lot of crap, especially when you're fond of bookstores (!!), Wal*Mart and Target.
John mentioned last night going down to the storage unit rental right down the road from us. This place has climate-controlled units, so it'd be perfect for a place for my books. Folks, when you consider renting a place to keep your TBR, then that's a problem. It is now 11:01a.m., and I've donned my best boxer shorts and scrubby t-shirt to clean. Dig me avoiding; I'm quite good at it.
I'm hoping to cull out some of these books in the process when I get that far, and possibly hosting a couple giveaways. Or at least scoring major credits at my local UBS and PBS. Wish me luck! If y'all don't hear from me by this evening, please...send help. Preferably in the guise of a hunky fireman without a shirt.