This post by the folks at the Strand brought me a little epiphany. The books we read often speak to our aspirations. They are small hand-held gurus or friends or vacations - temporary extensions in which we stretch our brains. But it's bookmarks that reveal our true selves; those meager scraps and pocket-scrapings tether us to reality like the string Theseus unwound on his way through the labyrinth. Our choice of anchor in a thousand-page sea says more about us than any astrological sign.
Post-it notes - You can't really remember your phone number or how old you are but you rule at pub trivia and have beautiful hand-writing.
French flap - you have a clean, tastefully appointed living room and a beagle named Darwin.
Coolidge Theater ticket stub - You're the rootless, aimless type. You've moved across country at least twice and harbor a little guilt at your lack of home-sickness but you feel nostalgic when you least expect it. You cried at this movie. You're a good person. Call your mother.
Ribbon - your cologne has top notes of pipe tobacco and sun-warmed leather and you own at least one steampunk accessory. In high school you were a borderline goth and your hair is enviably curly. You are literally the only person in the world who likes anchovy pizza.
Something with an inspirational quote - You own a juicer and went through a serious Joni Mitchell period.
Something with a picture of a unicorn - You've never tried karaoke but sweetheart, do it SOON because you don't know it yet but you have a voice worthy of the golden age of Radio - like a honey-soaked tiger purring an aria straight into the ear of God.
$20 bill - You know the power of a good incentive and aren't allowed to spend this until you finish Ulysses.
JP Licks receipt - You consider yourself brutally practical but clearly know when to indulge. You either are or will be a great parent/pet-owner.
Smaller book - You're intense. Your muscles have muscles.
Polaroid - You're the poster-child for vintage ephemera but hate the words "vintage" and "ephemera" almost as much as the people that use them. You're not really a people person at all, in fact. Maybe that's why you're preternaturally good at craigslist, that midden heap of virtual iniquity and cast-off treasure. You can sniff out the flea market gems faster than a bloodhound but you relish the hunt and have a soft spot for well-curated kitsch. We're all jealous of your record collection.
Bonus: Dog-eared pages - you actually are brutally practical. You're bound to survive the zombie apocalypse and the rest of us will follow you loyally into the dystopian future. Less than wisely, as it turns out: when push comes to shove you resort to cannibalism with nary a shrug.