I am a hoarder of nostalgia. It's true. I don't hoard garbage or old magazines, I hoard nostalgia. Chatchkies. Remembrances of things that happened a long ass time ago.
The other night, my sister made up a game on the spot in my room. Find a piece of my hoarded nostalgia (it's all pretty much in plain sight, except for my "ex boxes") and ask the meaning. What did I discover during this? I have a lot of useless crap in my room.
Valerie, where did those keys come from? An APO dinner. What are they keys to? They're not keys to anything, they were just decorations. GARBAGE.
Valerie, why are you still displaying your APO Paddle? You're a college graduate now. Fine. When I get my diploma, I'll take the paddle down and put the diploma up.
Valerie, where did that dusty old bear come from? Valentine's day... twelve years ago. GARBAGE.
Valerie, most of these people in the pictures on your shelves... you don't even talk to them anymore. Yeah, I know. I REALLY need to redo those (I've been saying that for probably about five years now.)
Valerie, where did that airline-sized bottle of tequila come from, and why are you saving it? It was a birthday present... I have no idea why I'm saving it. It's trash.
Valerie, why do you have the Resident Assistant sign from when you were in college? Because I stole it.
Valerie, you're still displaying your Irish Blessing from Expressions. Yeah... I don't know.
I hoard nostalgia. It's a serious problem.
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