Right now, as I type, the mound of stuff in our guest room is growing so large, it no longer fits on the bed. This particular mound is all the stuff we are getting rid of. I'd love to say that I feel a sense of accomplishment looking at the large amount of things we have decided to clean out of our lives, but I think the pile is growing all on its own now...
It's actually kinda scary. The mound has developed a life of it's own. I'm thinking about giving it a name. Things aren't as scary when you have a name for them, right? Then again, maybe not; what if I grow attached to it? I might decide that we need to keep all that stuff.
Mounds in general are scary, even the candy bar. My husband doesn't like coconut, so he thinks they're really scary. I love them, but can't have them, so they frighten me too.
Other scary mounds? Ants make them. Almost everyone has a story to tell about stepping in an ant mound. Mine happened at the swimming pool when I was growing up. We were in the parking lot and the pool had just closed. There's nothing like the burning sting of fire ants when quenched by a large body of water; the only problem was that we were in the parking lot. That might be the first time I can recall true irony in my life.
The mound in our guest room does have an up side, though. While I am a little intimidated by it, I have learned that cleaning things out is good for the soul.