When I dump the stuff in that white box onto the bed, my life spills out into one messy pile of letters and cards, a freshman beanie, photographs and newspaper clippings, an embroidered black halter top I wore on my first date ever, and my diaries, with flowers from old boyfriends carefully pressed between the pages. Occasionally, when I can’t immediately recall why I bothered to stash some knickknack in tissue or tied up with ribbons, I panic. But this rarely happens; sentimental girls tend to have very long memories. Click here to read the full PDF.
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