My baby's a packrat.

I just spent an hour in the attic.  It's hot in the attic, and dirty, and dusty, and dark.  There's one bare bulb in the middle of the 700 square foot space, and it's only 60 watts.  Even at 9am, with the sun up and shining, there are only four small windows.  It's dim, at best.  And hot. 

The attic is sort of our only storage space.  It's seven hundred square feet of junk storage right now.  Don't know what to do with something?  Cram it in the attic.  We've been doing this for years, so it's understandably ... messy up there.  Messy is an understatement, actually.  It's piles of junk.  Teetering towers of trash.  Lamps, a bed frame, a rug, two broken vacuum cleaners, christmas lights, all my sewing equipment, all of our tools, cans of paint, boxes that we moved from Allen's old apartment and never unpacked, shoe boxes stuffed with bank statements, piles of magazines, three full sleeves of R-30 fiberglass insulation, holloween costumes, all the boxes from every electronic anything we've ever bought, ever.

It's a lot of stuff.

I just spent an hour in the attic.  I rolled up the rug neatly and taped it into the rolled form.  I started a huge YARD SALE pile.  I threw out a giant box filled with garbage, stuff that's broken or useless or that we're never going to use.  I put things away in groups: suitcases here, pet stuff over there, yard sale pile here, tools there, paint supplies over there, holiday stuff in bins over here.  Trying to wrap my head around the madness.   I was finally able to see the floor, and I thought, holy fuck.  We need to have a yard sale, STAT.   I'm just going to put my foot down about some of the chaos.  It's too much.  It's too much STORAGE.  We don't need that much stuff.  We aren't using it, so why are we keeping it?  We need to call Clean House to come do the "keep, toss, sell" treatment to our own house.  I think I need to stage an intervention on my soon-to-be husband, before the junk overwhelms us and the ceiling collapses on our heads.