I remember my mom would always get mad at me because I’d end up reading things instead of cleaning. I’d read my books, my journals and letters that I’d find.

It’s only inevitable that I find something that makes me sentimental and cry. I always do.

It’s during those moments where I wish I wasn’t such a pack rat.

Yet, for some crazy reason, I always end up keeping those books, journals and letters.

Hopeless. This room’s never gonna get cleaned. :P