“It has to be around here somewhere” I said as I walked in the room.
I had just finished showering and was about to go meet my beautiful girlfriend for a late lunch but I couldn’t find my ID anywhere.
I looked in the bowl. Not there.
I looked on the shelves. Not there.
I checked by my recliner. Nope.
“Where could they be?”
Moments later I get a text: “Hey baby, I’m at the place, where are you?”
I respond and let her know I’m running a little late – I can’t find my keys.
The pressure begins to build. I delve into a pile of dirty cloths and rifle through pocket after pocket after pocket. Nothing. I skim my hands around the corners of my bed, praying that it might have just fell in between somewhere. Prayers denied. I go back to the couch and fling the cushion into the air. Nothing.
My phone buzzes. Another text: Did you check the bowl?
“… Did I check the fucking bowl?” I say aloud, in the midst of frustration.
The fury builds and I begin to launch various articles of clothing, books and other unsuspecting knickknacks from one side of the room to the other. I rip out drawers and desperately molest the caverns they once inhabited. I go from room to room in a frantic search that encompasses every fiber of my being until, in the throws of exhaustion, I lie on the middle of the kitchen floor surrounded by the misplaced objects in my house.
My phone buzzes again: “I’ll just bring over takeout.”
Vanquished, I sigh. I look around the house and realize the amount of work it will take to clean this up.
She texts again: “And I’m getting you a wallet.”
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