My printer, of course.

My weed jar. The curse is that it always has less than I thought I put in it.

That object, my friend, is me.

I have an accessory item with a name on it, from the clothing of a person who was killed. I never met this person.

I found it while doing cleanup of the scene where they died. It had no investigative value, so was trash, but I didn’t feel right throwing it away. I kept it, in hopes of giving it to someone close to them, but life kept moving and I ended up with it.