Estas cosas mia.
(These things of mine.)

I never quite know how to start writing a story since I have been programmed so well to think in poetic verses about beauty and melancholy things like birds.
If my cozy I-can-curl-up-like-a-cat-in-it thrift chair could speak though, he would tell you about the day I bought him and how I thought I was so strong but really I looked quite stupid carrying up the four flights of stairs to my hole in the wall as all the other girls watched me and laughed either at me or the 60’s colors of the chair screaming out at them. He’d also blush and try to talk about the many sexual encounters I have had there only minutes before parents would arrive. Maybe he would cry too as he commented on how many tears are soaked into his skin from all the escapades people and myself have put myself through. His preachings and knowledge come from many books that he has viewed from the underside of my face or from being exposed to Oprah and Mad About You.

My Target woven rugs would have an entirely different story I think. Their tale wouldn’t be long because they haven’t been many places besides Taiwan where they were born. They’d say that they like me because I don’t have much company to get them dirty and that my shoes sleep with them because I don’t.
The new bookcase my parents gave me for my birthday would comment that I have too many books and that his arms grow heavy holding them all up from drowning. The books themselves say they like their variety and the Ginsbergs are getting along with Shel Silversteins and Nikki Givannis. They also giggle their pages saying that the party is always getting bigger with every buying spree.

Below them is plopped my trunk given to me on the night of my graduation from my mother. Its many pictures of my relatives and friends symbolizes to me the love my mother always tried to show. Within its contents are my tennis awards that could tell of the hero and fierce athlete in me, the exploded tennis ball that I like to say I hit, and many pictures of drunken parties gone wrong along with a college photo album and my art project from drawing class with Mr. Pfliger. That art project, a collective book, alone would spread open its covers and radiate rays of both sadness and yet power. “This was her discovering her”- the book would claim and it is very true.
They all have better stories about me then I could ever try to explain. The frames of my beautiful sisters and how they grow and that crazy guy I’ve been seeing for two years that has my love wrapped up in a Kleenex inside his pocket would be able to sit down and do a tv show with you about me. They’d gossip on the people showing from their containers. What secrets are held between my sisters and the romantic and horribly over powering love I feel for Jason.

So many normal objects to have in a dorm room or apartment and yet some I could never bare to do without. My fridge’s poetic magnets camouflaging it and the contents within all as different as the continents on earth. Skim milk, maraschino cherries still in a jar uneaten, and five kinds of jelly all habitat there. The fern dying and living next to my window. She would vouch for my devotion and tenderness as would my bed for my necessity of comfortable materials that are near my skin. My phone covered in Chiquita banana stickers to show I can eat healthy. The many posters and artwork describing me to viewers. My Buddhist one providing my open-mindedness and the one of the Scream opening the client to my fear of the future. And this, this little expensive chunk of technology that I never thought I really needed but now I see that I did. What would you say little Macintosh? That I shower you with stickers of frogs and people and sayings to make you more human to me so I feel better about using your delete key. Your large face encompasses so much of my life with only the weekends leaving you to hibernate as I work and visit others. Do you get lonely and can’t wait for those Mondays to come when I will sit to look into your deep blue eyes and try to recall poetry for my creative class or concoct a new lesson for my education class? Without you my arm would fall off and I would no longer be able to write. Now that would be a story.