Sometimes I call it the Bermuda Triangle, other times, the Black Hole. I have many names for this dark and mysterious force of nature. It is alien, insatiable, Houdini-like, magnetically-powered. A saber-toothed con artist. A steamroller baby. A churning urn of burning funk. 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 devour: a phone charger, a sweater, a pair of earrings. It isn't picky. Try looking for the missing item. I promise you this: You won't find it. It's gone rogue. The locket with my mother's photo. Cash, credit cards, coupons for half-off. 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. It zeroes in on a random target. The kitchen. The dining room table. The washing machine. The dryer. 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. Sometimes the universe just likes to eff with me. Haha, SJG. You won't find it there, there or there. Enough already with the hide and seek. I'm so onto you. Put that thing back where it came from. Put that thing back, pretty please. No questions asked.
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