This may sound weird, but.. My combat boots.
I got them when I was 13. They were the first article of clothing that I had that meant something special to me. I was at the beginning of my "rebel" streak, and they gave me an edge. With my pink hair, girly dresses, 40s lipstick, and smeary eyemakeup, they added even more to my look. I freaked the **** out of people, and I liked it. I don't know why, but I did. I wore them everywhere, with everything, all the time. I wore them to the pool, for chrissake. I even wore them to court once.
But, I didn't love them just for style purposes. When I wore them, I felt tough. I felt like no one would give me any bull, and it was true. People left me alone. I guess they boosted my confidence. What was even greater is that they were called my "asskicking boots" by my friends, and they were sooo scuffed up and ratty. They got hiddeous after a while, but I loved them. They had battlescars.
Then, I got placed in a group home for a while. I had them there with me, and when it was decided that I return home, I packed up my belongings, with nothing on my mind BUT getting the hell out of there. I guess I forgot about my combats, too. I called back the next day to see if I could retrieve them, but they had already thrown them out. I was so, so bummed. I know they're just shoes, but they have memories attatched.
They looked like this, by the by:
http://roxyblink.tripod.com/sitebuil...ures/cargo.jpg
Okay, that was my lame contribution.