We used to have these cups—white plastic with clown faces on the front. As the years went by and the hot dishwasher cleaned them hundreds if not thousands of times, the clown faces gradually faded and became indistinguishable.

I still remember the faintly plastic smell and the feel of the cup's mouth closing around my cheeks as I stuck my chin in. Just now, when I took a gulp from my roommate's (I presume it's hers anyway, since I know I did not personally attend the festivities) NBA All-Star 2002 cup, I was immediately brought back to that place.

I have no idea whatever became of that cup, or of the thousand other little artifacts of my childhood that somehow were phased out along the way. Thrown out, I guess, but I doubt anybody could remember when. The parts of sets thrown to the winds, pieces from gameboards scavenged for school assignments, puzzle pieces lost and tossed out.

If given the chance, I know I'd become a pack-rat of the worst kind. I grow sentimental attachments to gum wrappers (but it was from Paris! It has a little French trashcan on it saying something along the lines of 'Put this wrapper in me!' on it! How can you throw something as precious as that out?) and I've never been one for taking the trash out in a prompt and efficient manner.

I know I shouldn't cling to these little things, that when my roommate is going through her shelves, throwing little nothings away and offering them to me first, I should say no. Because I already have enough of my own crap, but I don't know. I like putting things on my shelves. Even when there isn't really room.

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