I like my shit. I don’t want to declutter or downsize. My pasta cutter doesn’t need to make me giddy. It just needs to exist in my cabinet until I get a hankerin’ for some carbonara. But the pasta cutter doesn’t get all the way to explaining the urge to retain what I own. The objects I’ve added to my credit card debt in the shiny aisles of Acres O’ Junk aren’t usually the ones I cherish. It’s all the things I didn’t buy. None more so than the typewriter.