Life in a Catalogue

We checked mail late this evening, and they had forwarded my Newsweek to the proper mail receptacle. Some articles I don't understand, or I just read the first few paragraphs of and look at the pictures, but I feel like a better citizen just pulling it out of my mailbox and seeing that iconic red title band smile with me.

In their book section, they talked about this novel that's set up like an auction catalogue... with all the remnants of this couple's life "for sale".

What a thought-provoking idea... what would people think if my life were a series of auction lots? Each photograph is afforded a dry description of the details and significance in "Lenore" & "Harold's" life. I hope I never get to see the auction book of my life; I doubt I would approve any description that attempted to describe what my life's little mementos meant to me. That's why I carry a lot of stuff; Dad always makes fun of me, but I can't believe things don't have meaning for some people. Maybe it's just because I have such a bad memory, I like having things and pictures around me to remind me of what once was. I like being surrounded by instant memories, smiles, and happy thoughts. I also like to think that a visit to my room or my desk would be like flipping through a catalogue itself... "Important Artifacts and Personal Property From the Collection of Hilary Janae Lauchner, Including Books, Photographs, and General Memories." I can see it now; a runaway bestseller.