It Wants What It Wants

Sometimes I call it the Bermuda Triangle, other times, the Black Hole. I have many names for this dark and mysterious locale. It is alien, insatiable, Houdini-like. A freakin' force of nature, magnetically-powered. A saber-toothed con artist. A steamroller baby. A churning urn of burning funk. Demanding as hell. It wants what it wants, when it wants it. On any given day, it might consume: house keys, car keys, neighbors' keys. On any given day, it might feast on the following: cameras, camera cords, camera cases. On any given day, it might devour the most random snacks imaginable: a favorite sweater, a favorite CD, a favorite book. Hardback or paper. It isn't picky. Try looking for any of the above. Go ahead. Take a shot. I promise you this: You won't find it. It's gone.  Forever. It's up and left the building.

The document I meant to get notorized? See ya. The locket with my mother's photo? Nowhere. Cash, credit cards, coupons for half-off? Fugetaboutit. Things I hold dear. Things I don't give a crap about, but would like to know where they went, anyway? So long, sister. Sayonara. The Bermuda Triangle. The Black Hole. The thing with many labels. The kitchen. The dining room table. The garage. The office. The hall closet. The upstairs closet. Any closet. Any room. Pick one, any one. Put something there, on a counter or a chair, on a hanger or in a drawer, and kiss it adios. The tickets to that show next week? Good luck with that. The only photo of me with my eyes open? Don't get too attached. Sometimes, the universe likes to eff with me. Haha, SJG. You won't find it there, there or there. Enough with the hide and seek. I'm onto you. Put it back where it belongs. Put it back, pretty please. No questions asked.