Me and my prom date, the Sandylion.

I’m 19 years old, and I am fanatical about stickers. The mere sight of that Sandylion rack in the corner of the stationary store makes the backs of my calves tingle with excitement. If I happen upon some stickers in the company of friends, I get all Harriet the Spy in my efforts to sneak away and spend a few moments among the laser-hologram smiley faces. A new sheet of alphabet stickers can make my day. A package of playful velour cats can make my week. Something about stupid adhesive pictures gets me really amped. I’ve got dozens of sheets stockpiled in the back of my junk drawer.

Chilling with my buds.

I’m proud of my collection, but what’s embarrassing is that I still haven’t managed to figure out what to do with it. I don’t stick stickers to my shirt because sticker lint is disgusting. I don’t stick them on paper, because most papers eventually get thrown away. I mostly just leave my stickers in the back of that drawer, fantasizing about the day they’ll be called to action. Maybe a handwritten letter to a distant lover will require some adhesive pizzazz. Or maybe my next job application will include a directive to “share your favorite sticker here.”

For now I’m content to keep my collection tucked away and pay it a visit from time to time. My mood fluctuates with the phases of the moon and the news and the weather, but a smiling holographic sticker always smiles.