It came about suddenly, but apparently I'm flying to New York tomorrow. On a mission. It's time to clear away years of groovy accumulation in our old apartment. That is to say, I gotta sell my record and CD collection, all my books about monster movies and electronic music, and my bong too. Our sublettors have been stepping around this hipster detritus for too long, so now everything must go! Should be fun. Purging is great! Yeah.
For most male homo sapiens, the phrase "selling my vinyl" is a euphemism for "growing up." For me, it's like letting go of a central tenet of my psycho-pathology. What will I do without my white-marble vinyl copy of the Stranglers' Men in Black? Can I really part with my copy of Mudhoney's "Touch Me, I'm Sick" seven inch? Who will I be if I don't have my little treasures to fondle and cherish?
The danger is that I will walk into our old place, look around and immediately start sorting and organizing and plunging right back into my disease: hoarding. No, I won't do it. I will be brutal. I will clear and cut and even throw away my old journals. Yes. I must be strong and at last, edit myself. Or at least, edit my stuff.
Of course, I won't sell my stamp collection. That would be nuts.