Thermodynamics 101:

High school physics tells us that if you put more stuff into a confined space than comes out, eventually it will explode. No--not my head, my house. In order to accomodate the influx of goods and memorabilia from my mother-in-law's condo, a great outchucking has commenced. But each candidate for the flush must be fondled one more time--so many decisions. Dunning letters--out, third invoices to people who assumed that my 1980 printshop fire consumed my accounts receivable--I forgive you, SHRED. Pre-1994 deposit slips--b-bye. 34-inch waistline pants--never again, I fear, in this life. The many family photos in which I appear to be drooling, deformed or insane--gafloosh! Ugly furniture, (which unlike wine or men, does not improve with age)--I disown you. Personally, I plan to leave nothing behind when I go, except a robe, a bowl, two sandals, and a Dale-shaped hole in the spacetime continuum.