So, when I was moving out of my house in San Jose, I rented a Dumpster. Like, a big one. I had a lot of stuff, and the purging process was healthy and actually enjoyable. Why I thought I'd need five clips of every story I ever wrote for the local paper when I was 16, I'll never know. But, off they went. Along with much, much more. (The Dumpster was full, by the end.)
Anyway, once the sun went down, out came the Dumpster divers. Several times over, I had to shoo people out of my Dumpster. Even once, a guy on a bike, who couldn't be bothered to actually get off his bike to sift through the stuff at the top. It was annoying, not because I was afraid of identity theft or that sort of thing (those papers didn't get tossed), but because there was plenty of personal stuff in there I was tossing.
So, here, there's a big central room on each floor of my building with cans for 'wet garbage' and 'dry garbage.' The past couple nights, I've filled the dry can with DVD cases, books and magazines, and then put the dry spillover next to it. The trash/incinerator chute is right next door, so I don't feel too bad about making the cleaning crew move it all.
Tonight, though, was the time to move clothes to the trash room. Piles and piles and piles of clothes. The first load went out at 11 p.m., and was a mighty mountain of my treasured fashions. Had to be at least 50 pieces, from polos to t-shirts, to jeans and shorts. By the time I moved the second load out there, a little over an hour later, all that remained were a couple old undershirts and a pair of boxers. Just saying: Somebody's got a shit-ton of my old clothes in their condo. More power to 'em. Makes me feel less bad about leaving them there.
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