I am an EXTREMELY sentimental person.  I have always been this way.  Once I love something or someone, I love it forever and never let it go.  Whether its a pendant given to me by my grandmother, or a feeling of love in my heart, I carry it around and always keep it with me.  A perfect example of this would be my stuffed cat, Pinky Pur, or as I like to call her, Pinky.  Pinky was given to me on my first birthday by my neighbor, whom I loved dearly.  My family moved when I was four years old.  I didn’t keep in touch with my neighbor, but I held on to Pinky because she reminded me how much I cared about my friend.  I gave her the name because of her pink belly and the fact that she is a cat, hence the “purring.”  It was the best name I could come up with, considering at the time I received her, I could barely talk.  Over the years her formerly white fur has turned a shade of gray.  Her plastic eyes have slight chips in them, and her tail is frayed.  She is worn, and tattered, and run down looking. I am afraid to put her in the washing machine because I fear her head might fall off. Friends of mine have given her nicknames, such as SheepCatDog (because you can no longer tell what sort of animal she is supposed to be) or Rat-a-tat Cat because of her disheveled appearance.  She may look less than attractive, but I love her anyway. Every night, I fall asleep with her in the crook of my arm, pressed up against my chest.  She has always given me a sense of security.  This may sound odd, considering she is stuffed with fluff, but I feel as if she can hear my thoughts.  I wonder what she thinks about things.  Through every breakup, every excited moment, every worry, Pinky has been there, listening to me.  She doesn’t say much, but she is there.  If there is one thing she has taught me its that a little bit of love can last a lifetime.