Why do you hate me so?
You see around you an entire room that needs to be packed up before Tuesday morning, and yet you refuse to lift a finger and help me fill each and everyone of you with books, clothes, and shoes.
Never mind that I have protected you from many plights. I'm not sure what threats come to containers and suitcases, but you get the point. I've provided you a sound home, and for what? You sit there as I stuff you full of the contents of my room and for what? Not even an offering of thanks for my filling your bellies (for lack of a better word) with sub-couture clothing? You make me sick, containers. Nauseated at the idea that I took you in.
We've been through this once before. You made me pack three of you, suitcases! Three! No help, no encouragement. You just sat and took it and I gave you a marvelous intercontinental trip for doing nothing. To a third-world country, but still. It's the thought that counts, goshdarnit!
Alas, I have no more motivation to pack you. But I have to. Tell me where the justice is in that. Where? Where is it!? Tell me!
How did I do this seven months ago without cracking up? And how did I do it with a baggage weight limit?