My great-great-grandmother, who I was really close to before she died, made me a goose feather pillow when I was little and which I called squishy and which I kept for many years and which I would still have not but for a house fire that killed poor squishy several years ago. We were tight.

My books. I lost a large collection of books to the same fire that took squishy, and since then I've developed a kind of unhealthy obsession with books. They're kind of taking over the house.

I also have a favorite pencil and favorite pen that aren't allowed to be touched on penalty of death. No joke.

I've taken to calling my son (he's 1) Linus because he's got a little blue blanket that goes everywhere with him. He's not babied I swear, but holy shet we tried to take it away from him to wash it and he flipped out of his poor little baby mind, he looked me in the eye and made sure that I knew how very much he hated me at that moment. I've never loved anything as deeply as he loves that blanket.