America the Stored
written by
jaron summers (c) 2025
We are a nation of hoarders.
Every year, Americans spend billions to store stuff they’ll never use again. Family heirlooms. Broken treadmills. That karaoke machine from 2009.
We rent concrete closets for $1,500 a year to warehouse everything we could replace at Walmart for $26.99.
Take our storage unit: 10 by 15 feet of climate-controlled nostalgia. For $1,500 annually, we get a dark little cave filled with forgotten dreams and the smell of old sleeping bags.
It’s the Marie Kondo method in reverse: if it sparks guilt, we store it.
Recently I came across a company called MakeSpace.com. They’ll pick up your junk, keep it for you, and then bring it back when you remember what’s in there.
Kind of like a butler for your emotional baggage. Their prices are about the same as a standard storage unit, which is reassuring. Until you remember you’re basically paying rent on stuff you don’t want in your house.
So I had an idea. A business model, if you will.
For just $666 a year, I’ll swing by your place, pick up all your junk, and—brace yourself—you won’t know the last part until it’s too late … I’ll burn all your stuff. Or compost it. Or catapult it into Nevada. I’m flexible. Environmentally chaotic, but flexible.
And here’s the genius part: I’ll send you a storage bill every year. But you never have to pay it. You just feel like you should. It’s a guilt-based subscription service.
Think Netflix, but instead of watching reruns, you’re wondering where your high school yearbooks went.
Your junk? Gone. Vaporized. Reduced to spiritual residue.
Your wife will never suspect a thing. Until, say, 2035, when she asks, “Honey, where’s Grandma’s antique umbrella stand?” I’ll send her a polite, deeply apologetic letter. Something tasteful. Something like:
“Dear Madam,
Your item was unfortunately lost in a tragic series of clerical errors involving fire, rats, and a minor flood.
Warmest regrets,
Jaron’s Discount Memory Disposal™.”
If she threatens legal action, I’ll flood her inbox with increasingly unhinged but oddly poetic letters until she gives up. I’ve already written drafts like:
“We are in receipt of your complaint, and have forwarded it to our Department of Emotional Closure.”
Now here’s where the irony turns global.
The smartest businesspeople in the world, the Chinese, figured this out years ago. They mastered the art of making irresistibly low-cost goods—blenders, gadgets, plastic Santas, blinking holiday reindeer—and thanks to their AI and deep learning, they knew we’d never be able to throw it away. It’s diabolical brilliance: they sell us stuff we can’t part with and then—plot twist—they buy the storage units to keep it all.
Yes, rumor has it that Chinese firms now control thousands of storage facilities across America. Probably more. Probably on the moon. Who knows? They’ve created an infinite loop: manufacture clutter, wait for Americans to panic about their garage space, then profit off our inability to let go.
It’s Confucian capitalism at its finest: “He who sells plastic snowman also rents plastic snowman a room.”
So the next time you walk into your garage and feel the silent judgment of a boxed-up fondue set from 1997, just know: someone, somewhere, is getting very, very rich.
I’ll be standing next to a small bonfire, roasting marshmallows over what used to be your college futon.
