I wonder if there's a clump of cells in the brain marked "Keep everything you've ever owned and don't even think of throwing anything away" that can be removed? If so, I'm thinking of offering myself up for consideration as an experimental subject. I figure even if they miss, that clump of cells is likely to be in the neighborhood with "It will only take a half hour to complete this gargantuan task," and "This is so engrossing I'm finally feeling focused...oh, look at that! How interesting!" Either way I'm golden, once the surgery is performed.
Hmph. Sounds a bit like the impetus behind the thought processes of those cosmetic surgery addicts and to be quite truthful I'm not much into pain or knives. But really, there's got to be something genetically wrong with someone who keeps every single email sent to her until suddenly one day she notices the total has mounted to a nice, untidy 2453. I only wish I were making this up. But it never occurs to me to delete an email. I mean, I might NEED to know exactly what date it was on which my friend emailed a plea for a 2 minute distraction from the mind-bogglingly dull task set out for her by her boss. It might be a life-or-death matter for me to recall, verbatum, how my mother described the latest antics of my much-beloved kitty I'm missing so much.
Or so it seems. The clincher is that usually the very day I even notice the emails have mounted to impossible heights, I'm planning that THIS will be THE day for me to really have a focused morning. It's going to be productive and nothing will get in my way. Not even those emails.
Which means the next time I notice, there's bound to be 3268 of 'em.