I am an obsessive list-maker. My roommate, who is well-aware of my compulsion to write lists for everything, often finds my notes scrawled on the backs of receipts and envelopes. She’s much classier than me, so she brings me back post-its and notepads from wherever she travels to indulge my obsession… so now, all over the house you can find a to-do list here on paper that looks like the Alamo, a shopping list on paper from a French museum, or library books tallied on Westin stationery. There’s just something so satisfying about crossing each grocery item off as I drop it in my cart, or X-ing out “clean litter box” after completing that odorous task.
Once, when browsing through my favorite bookstore six years ago, I happened upon a total oddity — the first issue of Found magazine, a periodical dedicated to my detritus and that of people like me. Found doesn’t only compile lists — they’ll take anything from photos to lists to love letters to homework, so long as the submission was found by someone other than the creator (my eyes were glued to the sidewalk for weeks after I read the magazine — my best find was a photo of a toddler at a drum set).
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