Stuff…

In 80 years from today, when I’m on my deathbed surrounded by my harem loved ones my dear offspring shall surely beg me for my final wise words. My accumulated wisdom compressed into one single creed and with my last breath I shall utter these words: ”Never own stuff.”

Those were the exact words that resonated through my mind as I stood in my new living room. Men much more able than me were helping us move. ‘Us’ would be me and my girlfriend. Those men were her uncles and they, together with her mother, orchestrated what I couldn’t be bothered to do. Also they probably did a better job than I would have done. I mean, they had a schedule, tasks and did the necessary preparations. I have never been as prepared for something in my life as well as they prepared for this move. They knew all and I knew nothing. I was useless. So I just stood there like some asshole thinking to myself, ”Never own stuff.”

With what little I did know I could make out that there was a lot of stuff to be moved. Since me and my girlfriend switched houses with her step dad it was basically two moves (movings?) in one. All her belongings to his house and vice versa and apparently none of his belongings suited her taste. This off course meant that we had to move beds, couches, entire kitchens, tables and much, much more in and out. I’ll probably never understand this nesting instinct some people have. When I move in a month later all I’ll be taking with me are the clothes that I own and maybe a toothbrush if I’m feeling really fancy. But all this bitching doesn’t change anything. I still had to move what feels like every item in the entire world from one place to another.

”But Semir,” I hear you say in that annoying nasal voice of yours, ”Now you have all this nice stuff in your house. You are going to be glad you went through all this trouble when you sit your fat, hairy ass on a pretty couch while sipping from a cup you moved and unpacked yourself.” To you I say: Fuck You! Do you think I care about that when I’m in excruciating agony because I’m moving a coffee table up what seems to be the world’s steepest staircase? And another thing, I could literally live in a piece of shit  and be content with who I am as a person and when I say ‘piece of shit’ I don’t mean a bad apartment or something. I literally mean a piece of poop big enough to house me in.

So my words to my kids remain the same: ”Never own stuff.”