It's the big one, Weezy

I am a packrat. The apartment has been lived in for a solid 3 months now and it's full. There aren't any large open areas left. Only pathways through the junk. It's a habit.
Same way with my desk at work.
Same way with the car.
Same way with my backpack.
Same way with every space I've ever occupied.
To others it would seem unorganized and messy. How could one locate anything in the rubble?
There is a method to the madness. I know where things are. I can find them.
I got this honest. My Paw-paw is the same way.
He has a massive metal worktable/desk that has been around since the early Eighties under his carport. There are piles of handtools, brushes, oily rags, and unlabeled bottles of various chemical substances. Ask him where any tool or fluid is and he'll tell you the exact location in the pile. Never fails.
His father, my great-grandfather Rip was the Zen Master Packrat. Imagine a tall, old, mean-spirited, cranky, white version of Red Foxx's character on Sanford and Son. Now imagine the set of Sanford and Son. Multiply the piles of crap by 3. That is a pretty good idea of how Rip lived.
He was the only white man in his neighborhood. And he was a racist. Always griping about something.
He originally lived in an ancient, puke green two-story house in downtown Beaumont. Being the packrat deluxe, he accumulated tons of appliances, furniture, and general junk that others had discarded. He would repair, repaint, and sell these items out of his home. Made pretty good money doing this on the side (he was a fire fighter).
Eventually the pathes through the house became so sparce that it was necessary to purchase the adjacent house for eating, sleeping and general living purposes. The old house became his side business/tax shelter. We called it the Old House.
I can remember spending countless hours rummaging through the Old House with my cousins. Being the youngest and smallest at the time, it was my job to crawl over, under and around the larger object to reach the smaller things for his customers. Many times I would stumble and fall, or lose my balance while attempting to locate an item by listening to his directions. He would always laugh when this happened.
Rip took great pleasure in physical comedy. Particularly that which he could observe or inflict on others. Even his great-grandchildren.
I remember one afternoon I had been playing marbles with my cousin at Aunt Donna Mae's. We were riding back home with Rip in his green '57 Chevy pickup. It had those door handles on the insided that you pushed downward to open the door. I was riding shotgun with my right hand in a deathgrip on the door handle and my left clutching my bag of marbles. I rode this way because I knew my great-grandaddy very well. He enjoyed testing the brakes on his vehicles at comically appropriate moments. Then he would laugh like hell when your face slammed into the dash. As we approached a turn, I braced for impact. The old man sensed this and countered by slamming on the gas and screeching into a sharp left-hand turn. The centrifugal force sent my fatass cousin flying into me and our combined weight pressed down on the door handle. The door flew open and out I went. I held my deathgrip on the door handle as my body was suspended above the asphalt pavement, never letting go of the precious marbles in my left hand. As the turn ended, I aimed for a soft grassy ditch. Tucking and rolling, I ended up in a puddle of water near the culvert. Wet and pissed off, I could hear Rip and my cousin howling in the truck.
The old man never missed an opportunity to pull a prank.
I spent a lot of time at his houses during the first 10 years of my life. The Big C took him from us one summer. I cried like a baby at his funeral. Although I was often the object of his practical jokes, he taught me some very important lessons.
Just because you laugh at the misfortune of others, it doesn't mean you don't love them.
Humor and laughter really are the best medicine.
And although things seem bad, in time you will be able to look back on the memory and have a good story to tell.