Garage Monster

I have to write this fast because I bought low carb chocolate ice cream and I can't wait to vacuum it up.
I'm proud of myself. While cleaning up my garage I threw out nine separate items. These included a dust covered portable radio/tape player from the early eighties, an electric typewriter, a VCR, and six other items I've already wiped from memory. Actually my super came and took my ancient wood coffee table because I had replaced it with a glass top number that looks intensely modern. I sensed he thought he got a bargain.
I have dozens of paintings lined up, bursts of colorful brilliance that for incomprehensible reasons I can't seem to sell. There are quilts and blankets and coats and jackets and ten scarves. My old desktop, which died in 2009, is still against the wall, along with monitor and keyboard. Roscoe, my hand puppet peeks up at me from a box, waiting impatiently for return to my home.
My clay sculptures, resembling diseased rocks, lay amidst flotsam from Marshals Home Goods, Pier I, Target, Wal-Mart, various flea markets and garage sales. I just kept stacking, moving, tweaking, folding, and squeezing in stuff that might be embarrassing to anyone else. I am a gifted hoarder, as opposed to those who can't differentiate. The bottom line is after two hours of reorganizing I now have room for three more hand puppets. Roscoe needs to hang with someone.
I think I'm going to reward myself. Whisper it. Cho-co-late.