Sheri and I are learning the true gestalt of our apartment: an over-large collection of stuff. By Friday afternoon we had collected as many boxes that could fit 1. between our wall and our dining room table, twice over, 2. between our wall and the couch, and 3. in the rest of our storage space.
Just as we were getting on the phone to the IRS to see if box donations could be tax-deductible, Sheri shouted out to me to wait a tic. "We've just used half our boxes," she said, "and I'm not even done in the kitchen yet."
Needless to say we've taken several loads down to the D.I. since then, as well as to other places we could find after the D.I. told us to go away on account of they were full with our crap.

Here's some other reasons that I love my band: when nationally touring bands can't believe that you're just five chumps from up the street; when a fan, upon arriving at your show, shouts out that he's just had the best sex of his life to your latest album; when a bandmate looks to you in the middle of a song and says, "man, you look extremely satisfied"; when you can play word games with the collection of the four smartest people you know all the way from vegas to provo; when you can tour with this man who loves you as much as you love him; and when stuff like this are written about you: Read here.