Let’s be honest—some people collect stamps. Others hoard mugs from every state they’ve never visited. Me? I collect… seasons of myself.
Okay fine. And also sequins. A shocking amount of sequins.
My “collection” is a glorious mix of chaos and comfort, like if a Pinterest board and a thrift shop had a baby during Mercury retrograde. I collect:
- Journals (even if half of them are filled with grocery lists and passive-aggressive affirmations),
- Crystals (because they’re beautiful and remind me to slow down—even if I still can’t remember which one’s for anxiety),
- Keepsakes from my son’s performance career (every ticket, flier, and lipstick-smudged playbill has earned its place in the memory box),
- Louis Vuitton handbags (because one must carry their trauma and their lipstick in style),
- And oh, did I mention? Sequins. Like, enough to start my own glitter-based religion.
Every piece I’ve collected tells a story. A mood. A version of me I either survived or became. I don’t just collect things—I collect eras. Phases. Versions of Dorey who needed a feather boa to get through the week.
Collections, for me, are bookmarks in the chapters of becoming.
And if you think that’s poetic, wait until you see my collection of spooky-themed notebooks that I swear I’ll use for novel ideas. (Spoiler alert: I mostly use them to write to-do lists in fancy handwriting.)
So yes, I have collections. Not because I’m materialistic, but because I’m sentimental… and mildly dramatic. But mostly sentimental.
Now tell me—what do you collect? (And don’t say regrets. We don’t do that here.)
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