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320 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 2017

I was holding on so tight to things that the circulation was draining from my hands. At what point, I wondered, do we hold on to our past so tight that we risk strangling it to death?
And that’s where this line of questioning all goes, right? Fear of self-annihilation. Fear that we—our memories—the things that tell us who we are—will all go, just as we too will one day go. Letting go of our Stuff is a little bit like death … According to recent polls, Alzheimer’s is the number-two most feared disease, second only to cancer. I believe this is caught up in our sense of self: the fear that one day we’ll forget so much that we’ll no longer be sure we ever existed at all.
We all anthologize our lives to one extent or another: photo albums, yearbooks, collections of old letters, or saving one’s wedding dress…these are all the activities of a curator rather than a user. Although Marie Kondo disapproves, I’m not about to stop collecting my own life. It has been a source of pleasure for me ever since I can remember; it helps define me.
"Ma’am, is that a dead mouse?” “We prefer the term nonfunctional vermin."

[...] it was one thing to have a messy garage or an overflowing attic; lots of people have those. However, this, I scolded myself, this was really borderline behavior. Fringe-y behavior. I needed to get it together. And I solemnly resolved, once and for all, that I would. That was eight years ago.