UPDATE: I Am Still Really Pissed Off At Marie Kondo

Dear Neatfreak,

Since you decided to go from a Felix Unger to Oscar Madison last year and be a slob, I’ve been meaning to give you a piece of my mind. So you are no longer tidying up? You say your three tots are turning your house upside down, emptying cereal boxes and filling diapers up to and fro? Well, tough cookies.

Serves you right for making us throw things out and fight over what to do with our tchotchkes. Thanks to you telling us that we had too many throw-pillows in our life. While you were making $ millions, writing five or six books on straightening up—I stopped counting so I’m not sure—we were decluttering. Your popular TV show which taught couples how to be happy, started many an argument on our home.

I know you advocate downsizing as the path to joy. Then you will be happy to know, I am currently living above my friend Mark’s garage, sleeping on an inflatable mattress. Please note there is no clutter on the nightstand. There is no nightstand. I am feeling the freedom you spoke of, unencumbered by the things that can complicate life, like books or having an adult size refrigerator or socks. (You stated that “you must first discard those that have outlived their purpose. And if you no longer need them, then that is neither wasteful nor shameful.” This quote was in your bestseller, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up and used in my divorce papers.)

So now we find ourselves on the same path to joy. You live in a mess, and certainly my life is a mess. I look forward to your next book, as you hang up your professional tidier’s hat and find a new way of telling happy couples how they should conduct their lives. Let me spitball a couple of titles with you: Changing My Mind: I Was Completely Wrong or how about, Still Spewing a Load of Crap: Let’s Keep This Thing Going. Hey, I might write my own book after seeing how well you have done for yourself. The working title for my book is, The Art of Turning Your Life Into Shambles Over a Few Throw Pillows: Where’s Mine.

Yours in filth,

Bob Eckstein