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Home Again (A (kind of) stream of consciousness.)

I look through the same drawer of old shit every time I come home even though the contents never change. There's a stack of 7 wallet sized senior portraits of my high school friends, a letter from my dad, some Clinique moisturizer (the yellow kind), a broken necklace from the Japanese restaurant where I celebrated my 16th birthday, some butterfly clips, an ugly baby blue fleece glove (just one) and a cardboard star with my name on it that used to hang on my bedroom door when I was young because I've always been...A STAR. Nothing in there is exciting or even nostalgic really. It's a drawer of crap. Actual crap. But I still look through it every time I am home. I've always wanted a drawer to have something in it that really means something to me. Like that scene in Miracle on 34th Street when Susan is like, "Santa, I want a house, a real house," and she reaches over and pulls out a little picture of a house she keeps tucked away in the drawer next to her bed. …

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