My menagerie grabs the interest of everyone who enters my office. Most are impressed by it and find all the different tchotskes fascinating. I, on the other hand, think it’s getting out of control. The act of collecting is a slippery slope. I suspect it’s an early sign of mental illness and I have plenty of that already.

At this point, I couldn’t tell you how the madness started but it’s spreading. Friends and co-workers started giving me little things because I have a collection of little things. It consumes more desk real estate all the time. I want to move it to a nearby cabinet top so that I can contain it geographically.

A darwinian policy would help the situation as well. Each new tchotske could force an old one out, survival of the fittest applied to colorful bits of plastic, wood, glass, silicon, and cloth with my judgement standing in for environmental pressure.

But I don’t want that role. I can’t play God over so many precious little things especially since the majority are gifts. I should just accept the fact that one day rescue personnel will find me buried under the cutest avalanche ever.

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