Friday, July 08, 2011

Possessions are Fleeting

There's a fact of life that you may or may not be aware of at this stage: Possessions are tricky, self absorbed, smart arsed little bastards. You might think that they’re just there to serve you, do what you want them to do. But oh no, you’re sorely mistaken. Your belongings aren’t belongings at all; They own you, you see. They’re also patient. They’re more than happy to bide their time, sitting in the corner, plotting their revenge. They will lull you into a false sense of security and when the timing is right, they will strike down upon you.

One fateful day, unsuspectingly, it happens.

You lose something.

It was always there before, each and every day. You would swear by that fact. You’d bet your house, kids, pets, your soul or even your life that you left it right there. Why would you leave it anywhere else?  There’s no use for your CD/mobile phone/sunglasses/car keys/toddler in any other spot in your house so why isn’t it there any more?

You get a little bit frustrated at first, you need to get to that dentist’s appointment/big ape fight/around the world race as soon as possible but then you realise that you’re being ridiculous. It’s obvious; your desired item is clearly under the sofa cushion/in the desk drawer/in the glove box/under your cat. But then you inspect those places. It’s not there either.

You’re getting rather desperate now. You start searching places that aren’t even remotely logical. The fireplace, at the bottom of that pile of magazines you haven’t touched since that one magical summer in 1979, underneath the refrigerator. You take a long, hard look at your cat and consider giving it a colonoscopy just to be safe, but you ultimately decide against it. You don’t have the time.

You’re late now. You’re Fuckedzillad. You’re going to miss your night at the opera/meeting with the President/midnight screening of Breaking Dawn. You start to get genuinely upset now. You can feel the pure frustration and anger at yourself and the lost belonging stinging at the back of your eyes. “Oh no, you’re not, are you?” You think, “Don’t cry, you big baby.” Just give the house one last search, surely the Gods will be kind and permit you access to your long lost treasure.

Now you’ve lost all sense of control and, let’s face it, dignity. You rampage through the living room, upturning sofas and grumbling all sorts of curses and foul language under your breath. Satan is sitting on his thrown, eagerly clicking away on his ‘Swear Tally Counter’. That little outburst just earned you another 344,000 years in Hell. Well done. Even your cat doesn’t escape the wrath this time; you pick it up with one swift motion and shake it about roughly; maybe you can hear your car keys jingle if they’re in there; sadly, no such luck.

You curse the Gods and give up, hanging your head in shame and defeat, tears streaming down your cheeks, you’ve missed your appointment. The day is completely and utterly ruined. You don’t care about your CD/mobile phone/sunglasses/car keys anymore, you just want to curl up in a ball on the floor and cry the pain away.

You look down. There it is, hiding:

In your right hand.


- Tom

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