Oh yes. I collect like a magpie with OCD and a mild hoarding instinct. Here’s a glimpse into the curated chaos of my life:
🧿 Smurfs Collection (Near-Complete, With Accessories)
This is not a casual nostalgia trip. We’re talking about a museum-grade horde of tiny blue communists—every original PVC figurine from the 1970s and ’80s, all the way through the weird, plasticky atrocities of the early 2000s. Papa Smurf, Smurfette, Brainy, Vanity, even the bizarre seasonal ones like Astronaut Smurf and Devil Smurf. Yes, Devil Smurf exists.
Accessories? Please. Smurf houses (mushroom huts), vehicles, furniture, playsets. Even a custom-built Smurf Village diorama made from repurposed bonsai materials and foam insulation. It’s Blue Velvet meets Blade Runner, but with more socialism and less despair.
✏️ Pentel Mechanical Pencil Collection (P205, P207, P209)
I own more Pentel P-series pencils than most office supply stores. Dozens of each model—P205 (0.5mm), P207 (0.7mm), and P209 (0.9mm)—in nearly every color variant ever released. Special editions? Got them. Japan-only metallics? Of course. Misprints, prototypes, cracked barrels, Frankensteined hybrids with surgical steel grips? Naturally.
They are displayed in a custom rack next to my drafting table, which has seen more blueprints, battle maps, and nihilistic to-do lists than a Cold War bunker.
🎸 Dusty Guitar Room
The kind of room that looks like a pawn shop had a one-night stand with a garage band and then never called back. Guitars on stands, guitars on walls, guitars in cases, guitars under furniture. Fenders, Gibsons, an Ibanez 7-string I never fully mastered, and a Rickenbacker 330 that smells like regret and old vinyl.
Dust hangs in the air like melancholy. Most are out of tune. Some haven’t been played since the Obama administration. But I keep them because each one holds the ghost of a different version of me.
📚 Vast Book Collection
Books in shelves. Books in closets. Books in crates, bins, piles, and ominous towers that threaten structural integrity. Philosophy, physics, neuroscience, political theory, dystopian fiction, wilderness survival manuals, and esoteric cult histories—all devoured at a reckless pace that borders on addiction.
I buy books like I’m building an ark for the mind. Two of every paradigm. If you told me there was a lost 18th-century pamphlet about anarchist beekeeping, I’d offer you cash and a drink.
So yes. I collect. Obsessively, eccentrically, and without remorse. My house is a catalog of the subconscious: part archive, part reliquary, part slowly collapsing cave of wonders.
Want to trade a 1983 Magician Smurf for a left-handed P205 prototype in smoky graphite? Name your price.