I am a scrapbook box of myself. Snapshots and stickers and stationery waiting to be fused together and admired. That sounds so dramatic. But really, I am a trinket dish of myself. Collecting things about me that I find to be noteworthy, interesting, and – maybe most of all – endearing. It's like walking into a young woman's childhood bedroom and yanking open the untouched junk-drawer of her bedside table. My brain has been trained to pick up these souvenirs and seashells, constantly searching the ground for a lucky penny. I think it's because no one (read: no boy) has ever been "interested" in me, so in attempt to convince myself of my own fabulosity, I have spent 20 years collecting tidbits and recording proof.
I feel like it makes sense when you think about it that way. Why I am this way
I guess in the back of my head I'm thinking, "well, one day, I'll have to catch someone up to speed."
