Lost, the Final Frontier

Ecstatic. A mere understatement. As I reveled in the zest of the proposal, I forgot to mention the actual jaw breaker that perches on my finger. Besides, its blatant twinkles, I’m more frightful of losing it than fracturing a rib. It’s in bad habit that I lose everything in my possession this includes brain cells. Take a few years ago, I lost my wallet three times in two months. For as unethical and unprofessional as it seems, even the Bank of America representative gently, yet abrasively made a remark on the constant reoccurrences. Another time, I thought it would be clever to link my wallet to my house keys. Not so smart. Another instance, placing a significant amount of cash in a safe spot only to be unable to recall that secret location. These are just minor incidents that are hazardous to my common subsistence. I don’t smoke pot, but as I reassess the situation, maybe I should? At least, I would have an excuse for such a dopy existence.

As a child, mom would press me to pray to St. Christopher! His claim to fame was to have assited Christ as a child across a river. If only St. Christopher could telepathically lead me across troubled water to a shore of lost items. A quarter of a century and practically a decade later, I feel that St. Christopher is so flippin’ sick of hearing from my lame butt that he apparently took his phone off the hook.

Yelp. To who or is it whom? Do I turn to? I cannot allow Shane’s careful selection and hard earned investment become victim to my forgotten vortex. Dear Abby it is you that holds the golden answer to my truth.