I like to think of it as “being prepared for anything”, but it’s probably closer to “being a dingbat.” Here’s my confession for today: I have a problem getting rid of stuff (and people, too, but that’s a whole other story…). Sorting things I need from things I don’t need is as difficult for me as it was for that dude who (SPOILER!) had to cut off his own limb at the end of Saw. Deleting emails, even spam, is next to impossible, because I am afraid that once I get rid of it, it’ll magically transform into THE SINGLE MOST IMPORTANT EMAIL EVER SENT TO ME AND I NEED IT IMMEDIATELY OR MY LIFE IS OVER. You have that too, right? It’s not just me. It can’t be. For example:

“AJ, are you looking for something in our science fiction & fantasy books department? If so, you might be interested in these items: Look! Here are two books you wrote, and three books you’ve already purchased! Sincerely, Amazon.”

Clearly, I do not need to save this email. There’s nothing for me to gain by keeping it. I could have happily not even read it, because it offers me only stuff I already have (like <insert shameless self-promotion here, go buy my books>). If I delete this email, no harm will come to me. However… here it stays. I KNOW, it’s a sickness. It’ll be transferred into a file folder called Saved For No Bloody Reason. It’s a weird, modern sort of paranoia…fear of dumping probably-useless digital information. I wish it were my only pack rat quirk.

Other things I’m scared to get rid of:

1. Photographs. I’m irrationally POSITIVE that if I throw someone’s picture in the garbage (or delete it from my phone/computer) it’s the same as metaphorically trashing that person’s essence from existence, as if the Cosmos will take Her cue from me and literally dispose of that person from Her planet. Then they’ll die and it’ll be ALL MY FAULT. This is why I have eight million pictures. You know how some girls burn pictures of ex-boyfriends for closure? I couldn’t possibly do that. What if they actually burst into flames and crisp to death?! I didn’t dislike them that much. There’s really only one ex-boyfriend I would wish that on, and he’s already dead. Hmm…then why haven’t I chucked his pictures? I can’t make him more dead… CAN I?? Holy crapwaffles, my imaginary powers are terrifying. If I throw this picture of my dead ex in a wood chipper, will it come out the other end like bone chips and rotten flesh? I’d better keep these pictures of him just in case. (Probably, I should just stop taking pictures. Or I should only take pictures of my enemies! Ooooh, photo-voodoo. Bwa hahahaha. Hey, what happens if I delete a selfie? OMG!)

2. Notes about Nothing. Something occurs to me just before I slip into dreamland, and I throw a sleepy hand out and grab my night pencil (an actual thing, beside my bed) and scribble the thought down on my night pad (disclaimer: not the Always with Wings night pads) and then I chuckle and fall asleep. In the morning, these notes are nearly illegible, and more importantly, not funny. At least, they’re not funny in this century. BUT WHAT IF HUMOR CHANGES AND THIS IS SUDDENLY, INEXPLICABLY AMUSING to people who are wide awake? There’s a healthy 2% chance that could happen. I’d better put it on my desk for a while to consider its true worth. And then next month, when the crumbs on my desk between all the books and pens and note scraps have reached critical mass and it’s time to clean, I’ll tuck this not-funny note into my idea box. And then at Christmas or so, when I’m procrastinating about holiday shopping, I’ll sort the idea box and maybe move this note to my peg board or into one of the desk drawers, with the eighteen million other notes that aren’t funny, clever, or interesting. Yet. But maybe someday… (Note: that is not my desk. Mine is much, much worse.)

3. Mason jars. I have made jam once. To be precise, I made peach jam, white grape jelly, crab-apple jelly, and strawberry-raspberry jam. It was the sweatiest, most exhausting 3 days of my life, if you don’t count that ill-considered fling I had with my yoga instructor in 1996. Anyways, it was an enormous pain in the ass (the jam, not the yoga instructor), cost a fortune after buying pectin, jars, rings, lids, seals, stickers, canning equipment, cheesecloth, a grinder, etc etc…and in the end, it tasted no different than store bought. The likelihood of my making jam ever again is comparable to the likelihood of my becoming the Empress of Doom on the planet Draconia where the population is largely centaur, and they all worship me more as a goddess, really, because I’m that awesome. What was I saying? Oh, right, jam. Not gonna happen. But any time I have an empty jar, I can’t let go. WHAT IF I NEED TO CAN SOMETHING? Like, it’s the end of the world, and I really need to make pickles? For the future of mankind. Planet-saving pickles. But I can’t, because like a stooge, I threw out all my mason jars. What kind of an idiot risks the fate of humanity by throwing out something like MASON JARS? Not this idiot, I assure you. I have more mason jars than any sane person could ever need. I’m gonna be honest with ya….they’re taking up a lot of space in my pantry doing a whole lot of nothin’. Sometimes, I think I should box them up and put them out in the barn, but then what if I need a mason jar IMMEDIATELY and there isn’t one on hand? Like, there’s a pickle emergency? Could happen. And if it does…. I’m ready. I’m your gal, picklepocalypse survivors.

Are you a pack rat, too? What do you save?