I’m
not entirely sure when my mom started doing this, but sometime within
the last decade, she started this weird habit of collecting random,
inconsequential things from my childhood for me.I do not want to think
about what her motivation for doing so might be or even delve into
details of the stuff she saves but sometimes I don’t have a choice.You
see, my mom fancies this rather mortifying trip down memory lane as an
opportune activity to bond with me.I don’t get it, I really don’t.I
mean while most parent-son bonding sessions involve full body massages
at spas, drinking beer, shopping, or gardening; here I am looking at
random things that have little to no significance in my life.

Today
we sat down at the decrepit kitchen table, the very same table where I
ate thousands of cholesterol laden meals as a kid, to look at this
week’s dose of nostalgia and weekly heap of junk.Among the items are: A
lock of my baby hair, Flyers for summer swimming lessons, a faded Ogie
Alcacid casette tape, expired SM department store gift certificates, a
picture of myself and my ultimate grade school crush, Jane Sebastian
doing some stupid aerobics shit, three paper clips, old McDonald’s
coupons, grade school test papers and art projects.

Now
those roused my interest a bit.The test paper mom found was actually
one of the first English essays I wrote and the crayola disaster of an
art project was one of my first futile attempts at doing something
creative.I made both of these when I was seven years old; the time when
my scholastic career seriously began to go downhill and never ever
recovered.This is the time when prepubescence was taking its dreadful
toll on me.

I
have taken the liberty of scanning the said papers for public exhibit
with the knowledge that it would seriously damage my reputation, lead
people to doubt my sanity, and ruin any chances of me landing a better
paying job or passing any type of psychiatric evaluation in the
future.I’m a blog whore like that I guess…