Love Letters to Forgotten Things

The harbor has always felt like a place of safety—a spot where rope and wood, mast and chain, water and memory all meet. But sometimes what feels like an anchor is actually a release. In this episode of Love Letters to Forgotten Things , Bunny reflects on the quiet docks where nostalgia keeps us tied, and how every memory—every love letter—is both a keepsake and a farewell. This isn’t just about b...

We weren’t lying. We were becoming. Tracks, gravestones, and the sacred buzz of a night we never gave back.

Some friendships don’t explode—they just dissolve. No betrayal. No fight. Just a slow fade into silence. This is for the ones who left quietly, and the memories that still speak loud.

Before we understood plot twists or box office records, we sat in the glow of something enormous—next to someone who knew what it meant. This is a tribute to that first cinematic thunderclap. The popcorn. The whip. The grin from your dad when he knew it was hitting you too. A love letter to the moment the movies became real .

What do we hope to preserve when we bury the past? In this episode of Love Letters to Forgotten Things , Bunny recalls the day he sealed grief inside a homemade time capsule—believing memory, love, and loss could be frozen in the earth until the future was ready. But time had other plans. Boxes collapse, paper fades, and even the most sacred keepsakes surrender to soil. What remains is never the t...

Some places don’t just serve drinks—they serve turning points. A candlelit dive, a plate of tabbouleh, and a jazz riff that never quite resolves. This is a story about a booth, a moment, and the kind of love that steps out of the smoke when you least expect it.

Some memories stay loud, even when no one else hears them. A kiss, a joke, a walk home. A love letter to the people who passed through us like weather—and the echoes they left behind.

It tasted like Dr. Pepper... A basement spin-the-bottle kiss that was awkward, sweet, and unforgettable. This episode is a love letter to that first kiss – the one that made your heart flip for the very first time.

Before we had bikes, we had vehicles of chaos —plastic beasts and wobbly wonders that squeaked, skidded, and sometimes bounced us straight into the gravel. In this episode, Bunny salutes the tricycle, Big Wheel, Inchworm, Hoppity Hop, and Sit & Spin—those glorious misfit machines that didn’t just move us… they made us feel unstoppable.

Before life got more complicated than a heel turn, there was that night—snacks in hand, couch cushions flying, and voices hoarse from cheering. This is a love letter to WrestleMania watch parties, to the brotherhood of fans, and the memories that still body-slam us when the theme music hits.

In this episode Bunny explores the quiet kindness of forgetting — the way time erodes pain without erasing love. Through soft imagery and slow reflection, he likens memory to sea glass: once sharp, now safe to touch. The Mercy of Forgetting considers how the blur that once frustrated us might actually be a gift. Forgetting becomes an act of mercy — a natural rhythm that spares us from endlessly re...

Every spring, an empty basket waits on the doorstep—not for candy, but for wonder. In this quiet act of hope, Bunny explores the lingering ache of belief, the names we grow into, and the soft rebellions we stage to keep magic alive.

They called it the Satanic Panic, but to us, it was just Tuesday — metal riffs, dice rolls, and cartoons that couldn’t summon darkness. While the grown-ups scrambled in fear, we were just trying to find ourselves in the shadows. Love Letters to Forgotten Things is a weekly dive into the small, wild moments of childhood that shaped us — a slow dance with memory, meaning, and the forgotten treasures...

Walnut wars. Cornfield spear fights. Childhood games that flirted with concussion and worse. This episode is a love letter to the wild afternoons when pain was proof you were alive – and survival was just part of the game.

When your life becomes edits, captions, and short clips, what happens to the real you? In this episode, we ask if being digestible online means fading in real life – and if anyone else misses the warmth of being fully seen. 🎙️ Because behind every signal is someone hoping to feel human again.

They smelled like ambition. Grape, pickle, root beer—tiny olfactory trophies that made you believe in effort, reward, and scratchable magic. A love letter to the stickers that knew who we really were.

Why keep telling stories no one asked for? Because letting go feels like forgetting, and forgetting feels like disappearing. In this episode, we hold tight to life’s smallest relics – the jelly jars, plastic toys, and fleeting smells that prove we were here. 🎙️ Maybe if I say it just right, you’ll remember yours too.

It wasn’t just a movie. It was a rite of passage smuggled into a VCR after dark. A pool scene we weren’t ready for, a laugh we couldn’t muffle, and the kind of late-night thrill that turned slumber parties into secret societies. This is a tribute to the tapes we weren’t allowed to watch… and watched anyway.

So many loves. Not the one. But the moment. A love letter to the almosts, the echoes, and the names we still whisper when no one's listening.

A blanket, a whisper, a light spinning on the ceiling. This is about the first time the dark stopped feeling safe.

You didn’t talk much. Neither did I. But for a few electric minutes at the arcade, it felt like something was about to happen. A love letter to the near-misses, the quarter-fed connections, and the ones we never quite said the words to.

Before every night could be live-streamed, before every moment was documented, there were places where magic happened in the dark. In the late 20th century, a small group of night owls claimed a hidden white band shell in a public park as their secret dance club. No invites, no bouncers—just mix-tapes, boombox speakers bouncing music against plaster, and shadows stretching across a moonlit stage....

He was born. He came first. A brother I never met, a name rarely spoken, and the quiet inheritance of a life that could have been. This is a letter to the shadow that shaped a family.

It was just a toy store marketing gimmick – a tiny silver key taped to a birthday card. But for kids in 70s and 80s Cincinnati, it unlocked a castle of wrapped gifts… and a moment that said, you matter. This is a love letter to the key, the castle, and the joy that’s lasted 40 years.

They began as scribbles on napkins or whispered dreams before the countdown—promises to become better, braver, new. But over time, those bold declarations softened into something gentler, more human. This is a love letter to New Year’s resolutions: the ones we kept, the ones we didn’t, and the fragile, beautiful hope that dares to return again and again.