The (Plastic) City of Lights

There is a small plastic Eiffel Tower in the corner of my room. I don't know why I've kept it. It's utterly useless. It's not even a decent facsimile of the real thing. It's the sort of thing one might find in the prissily-decorated bedroom of an eight-year-old girl who's obsessed with France and fashion and la cite de lumière.
I am not eight years old. I am not obsessed with France. I have no interest in fashion nor in the City of Lights.
So why the hell do I keep this thing around?
Maybe I like having the satisfaction of knowing that I am not, never was, and never will be the sort of person who genuinely values it. I may be ridiculously nostalgic about certain things, and it's true that I attach absurdly twee memories to the most commonplace of things. But I have never been that goofy prepubescent girl who dreams of sipping a latte in a cafe in Paris.
For one thing, I hate coffee.
Maybe I keep the stupid thing because it reminds me that there is more out there than just this land of ten thousand lakes (which is incorrectly named anyway - it's closer to 15,000). Even if that outside world has chosen to be commemorated by the production of cheap plastic trinkets.
The point is, I genuinely have no clue why I keep it. From time to time, I spend a while staring at it and listing all the reasons I should throw it away.
But then I never do.
Perhaps it's only fitting that, since the City of Lights has survived millennia, this moronic piece of crap should at least survive my passive aggression.