Seven Items To Leave Behind When You Move

Recently, my hetero life partner and I decided that it was time for us to move locations from our previously inhabited dingy, Los Angeles-based porn hub to yet another, yet slightly brighter (this time even larger) L.A.-based porn hub. It wasn’t that our old place was a completely dilapidated structure or anything, it’s just that we had, as roommates, grown apart from the place. It was a architectural breakup, if you will; the apartment had ran its course and now it was time for us to date other structures. And so, as I began to box four years worth of neglected mementos, I couldn’t help but uncover nostalgic relics that I somehow felt like I had to keep: a framed breakup letter from a girlfriend years prior, my dusty college diploma (oh yeah, that thing), a lonely, bright orange Nintendo Duck Hunt gun, etcetera, etcetera. Priceless artifacts, I tell you –or at least they were to me. But as hard as it was, I had to eventually convince myself that it was absolutely retarded unintelligent to hang onto this extra clutter.

Though I threw out most, I do admit there were certain items I had to hang onto, however this articles is not about said-items. Through letting go of seemingly useless objects, it opened my eyes to the fact that there are seven items that every person should definitely leave behind if they ever move. While these treasures are things you may never really ever need, you can bet your sweet ass that one of your best buddies probably has this sh*t stowed away in the basement. You know the friend, your dirty friend, the one with the limp. Yeah, that guy…


Did you say something to Mr. Queef?

It’s funny how the sh*t you seem to buy in an attempt to try and improve the health factors of your life, usually end up stashed away under some crappy disco vinyls and a mashed up, old Taco Bell nacho grande. As difficult as it may be to part with your Bow Flex, it’s time to realize that you’re a lazy piece of crap and turning your crappy life around isn’t dependent on this crappy, 4-Easy-Paymented piece of plastic. And “no”, you don’t need to hang onto that whey protein powder either, because you only ate that sh*t for like a week and that was back during your sophomore year. You can donate the torture devices to any secondhand store or just leave them on a curb. Because how else are homeless people supposed to get really uncomfortably muscular?


Ahhh, what is it?!?

Let’s be honest, your first initial reaction is “F**K YEAH!!!”, but hold out for the full-blown victory celebration, just yet. While I can certainly understand the excitement surrounding discovering your old Zelda gold cartridge, I highly doubt you’re ever going to conquer that thing again. Sure, maybe you’ll fool around with it like some townie you met at county fair, but soon after you’ll grow tired and stop calling the townie…and then what, huh? Don’t break the townie’s heart, get it? See, that metaphor is so go**amn blinding that I can’t even focus correctly on my keypad right now. Instead, give away the entertainment to a younger and dumber generation. One that longs to learn the origin of their slow metabolisms.


The f**k did you say, punk?

Everyones got one, no one wants to admit it: it’s that hideous excuse for a jacket you purchased many moons ago -the one you wore out to your car and then ended up never putting it on again? Yeah, I know it feels like the stitching is practically sewn through your own skin, but you’ve got to cut the umbilical cord and let it go, Vato. Donate the jacket and let some other poor schmuck live the horrid legacy.


What's in the box?! What's in the BOX?!?!

Oh yes, we’re about to get therapeutic on your bad self. It’s the box full of that a**hole f**king b**ch a** little c**t sh*t wonderful “special” person from your past; the first love, the “great white buffalo“, the one who. for whatever reason. you held onto for a particularly longer period than the rest. Remember them, do you? Yeah, well –you can forget it. The past is the past and Marty McFlying yourself back there isn’t going to help improve the future at all (unless you find a sports almanac). Yeah, I’m sure that box is full of photographs you’ve practically convinced yourself are alive, but get over that sob story and return that stuff back to planet Earth. Bury, burn, dismember, send away via messenger pigeons -I don’t know- whatever it is you gotta’ do, just do it. You’re about to move into a new place and you don’t need haunted fossils sending off bad juju vibes in your improved love nest.


There he is, folks, the champion of fists.

Welcome to the snake pit, please don’t touch anything or look anyone directly in the eye. Why these haven’t already found a home, whether behind the toilet or in your roommate’s safe, you’ll never know. Aside from practically the entire porn industry operating primarily online these days, there is no archeological reason that you should still be holding onto these “jerk mags”, as the oldies call them. *puts on fedora, wips woman’s butt with wet towel* Don’t even bother trying to give these away, the world has enough creeps already. Instead, fill a cardboard box with as many of them as you can, drive it out into the woods and just leave it there. I can’t even begin to describe the level of excitement I felt, at 12-years-old, when I stumbled upon a horribly weathered, sun-spotted Hustler magazine. “No” I couldn’t see anything. “Yes” it was effed up beyond all recognitive. And “you bet cha’ ” I still decided to keep it warm under my bed that winter.


F**k. The. Couch. Dude.

You’re never really able to place a finger on how you acquired certain pieces of questionable furniture -it just sorta’ happened. All you know is that when you moved, you found yourself gazing into mystery. Besides, let’s be honest: who really needs a sofa couch with about 800 scratch marks in it from when your roommate got his cat spayed? Try shooting your pal a text message and if you don’t hear back, then toss that furniture down the trash shoot -or leave it out front. That way, you’ve got a 50/50 chance to wake up and find that A) either someone took the couch while you were sleeping -or B) there is a passed out college student sleeping on it. Either way that’s a score in my book.

That Tiny Ass Bed

No, seriously, I'm not sleeping there. It looks horrible. Absolutely horrible.

If only I could heed my own advice, I would have gotten rid of my twin-sized bed years ago, but noooooo, instead I chose to sleep like the coiled up fetus that I am. Look, now that you’re moving out, your whole life is changing. Not necessarily anything drastic or violent, but things are about to get shook up and part of that should include an upgrade for your sleeping situation. If you’ve got a queen-sized bed and your big ass still bonks your head at night, then it’s time to put a little money in the cookie jar each month and save up. Not only does a bigger bed offer more space for yourself, it will also accommodate others sharing the space with you…like Mr. Medium Hand Tossed Pizza or his friend, Six Pack, Esquire.

And so we say “sayonara” and bid adieu to your old sh*t. I know it hurts at the present moment to give away a bunch of the gluttonous crap that you had forgotten about anyway -but still you’ve got to realize that, in the long haul, none of that crap is gonna’ matter. See? That was a life lesson there, straight from me to you. Am I really gonna’ remember Wendy Guest’s bra from when she let me feel her up n the 7th grade? No, I’m not -I’m going to remember Wendy Guest and how she dumped me and then later got married to a successful and handsome doctor. I mean, not that I’m bitter or anything, I’m just saying that THE BRA DOESN’T MATTER! Part ways with the crap that you think is the memory and realize that it’s just part of the memory. While it’s said that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, that isn’t always exactly the case – see, if it is, in fact, useless garbage: then toss that stuff. That’s nobody’s treasure. But who knows, maybe that dated pimp jacket will help some sad individual gain the confidence necessary to pursue the romantic interest of their dreams? That’s right people, I’m calling it: donate a pimp jacket and change someone’s life.

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