I've been dusting and cleaning in my room today. I took all of the knick knacks off of my shelves. Memories surged through me each time I picked something up. Like the trophies... and the piece of wood that i burned my name onto. It still smells like fire. I found Bongo. I wonder how much he's worth now. Probably a lovely little bit. My angel bell with the peridot in it... the little booklet thing that Robyn made me in 7th grade... The teeny tiny porcelain doll.. with it's little golden hairs stuck to the pointiness of the cheek bones... I got them at one of those St. Patrick's festivals... It's so strange how nearly every little toy thing I own has some kind of a story behind it. I hate it too. Why must everything remind me of some other goddamned thing????