August 3, 2013


I get attached to the strangest things.




Seriously. I find myself with emotional attachments to these things.

As if they’re physical memories.

As if I’ll lose the memory if I lose the object.

As if they’ll end up in a museum someday and not in a garbage bag as my children clean out my house after I’m dead.

Hoarder? Probably.

But every Spring I make myself throw things out.

And it hurts.

What’s the point of keeping all these things? Do my memories become less real if I don’t have a physical souvenir?


I can move people in and out of my life like a shuffleboard game, but I’d rather not throw out a Lucky Charms pencil I got when I was seven years old.

The human experience is a strange sticky tree, branching out in directions you can’t explain and could never predict.

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