There's a problem with my life. You see, I live alone. Seventeen and live alone. It's a long story, I'll tell you later in life I guess.

Apparently, the trash I'm talking about is not my trash. It's the bag of snack that that time a while ago a friend of mine stopped by and brought it with her. She left it half-eaten, and her opened tea powder bag too. I call it memory trash, it's not that I'm finding an excuse to not take it out but I like seeing it there, on my small wooden tea table. Reminding me of a happy night we spent together in my cold dorm room.

The same thing happens to my scribble sketches too, I drew it a month or two ago, it was supposed to be in the trash can by now but I don't want it to be. It stays there on my fridge, just so I can feel what I was feeling at that time, good feelings.

I know I'm weird, but I don't want to call them trash, as long as they don't smell bad, I want to keep them next to me, like the memories.