Lost

I hate losing things. I really hate realizing that I've lost something long after (probably) I've lost it.

First, you have the image of where it always is. It's always on that shelf isn't it? Of course it is. But it's not there now. So where could it be?

Next comes the reasonable searching. It's a flask so it's probably among alcohol or cooking related items. Look in the cupboards. Nope. Look under the wet bar (ha! I wish!). Nope. Move on to a second degree of abstraction: flask goes in clothes so look in the closet. Pat down pants and jacket. Nope. Search own bodily cavities. No cigar (get your minds off the former President!).

Then comes the unreasonable searching. OK, it's a flask, so I could have set it down anywhere...maybe it's under the bed! Shoot. It's got to be behind the refrigerator! No! WHY?! All of a sudden the chances that you'll find what you're looking for (in your mind), become directly proportional to the oddity of the place you look. If you can't find it in the lunch bag from the halcyon days of your childhood hidden away in the back corner of the attic behind the radioactive tarantulas from Betelgeuse, then where in the name of hell's great big butthole are you going to find it???

Then comes the futile self-doubt. The once, twice, thrice, eight times shuffling through the same box. Don't trust your eyes. Feel around. Maybe your tactile nerves are misfiring? Feel around and listen carefully for a metallic clink. Smell for it. Anything! And when you've gotten to the point where you just stare at the place where the object should be, hoping to will it into existence, your soul is already gone, devoured by a great emptiness that is as real as the physical absence of the object you seek.

Forget losing things. I hate trying to find lost things. Absolutely the worst!