i might have interior design bulimia.

i have an overpowering compulsion to purge my entire house of every piece of furniture, every picture frame, every doo-dad, and give it all to a thrift store. or maybe build a bonfire. or sell it on ebay. or give it to friends.

the notion of having a completely clean, empty space tantalizes me like a glittery idea, dangling in front of me. i keep forcing my thoughts away from it, for fear that i'll give in and find myself acting out this compulsion.

maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing...
with no possessions to clutter up a room, when i clean it, i would know i'd cleaned every single part. there'd be no behind-the-bookshelf or under-the-couch shadows to darken my bright, happy, clean-ness.

the only thing that keeps me tethered to reality is the sense that i would horribly regret it. the purged clean happiness may not be enough when i'm faced with the overwhelming remorse of having gotten rid of my favorite things.
i tend to think that without those things, i would be less defined. people would come to my house and see blank rooms and instinctively assign blankness to my personality. as it is, people assign the colors of the walls to mean i must have a cheerful outlook on life. my full bookshelves mean i'm an intelligent reader. my paintings and drawings on the walls obviously attest to my fondness for creativity. that bust of june cleavage confirms being known by friends (casey in particular) and shows my undying loyalty to them (by displaying it shamelessly in my house)...
on the other hand, don't i want people to know me through relationship and interaction? do i really need things to speak for me?

what it all boils down to is finding the balance between materialism and self-definition, i suppose.
when do we have too much stuff?
when does our stuff get in the way, and when does it just facilitate the way?

i don't know.
i'll keep mulling it over before taking too definitive of action.