There was a time when I could walk into a room and actually remember what I came in to get; I didn’t get confused from tripping over a stuffed animal or distracted by a million questions about insects, I just went in and got it–like a person with a functioning brain. Then one day, my luck ran out and the anal-retentive, control freak that everyone had grown to despise had now been replaced by a lesser-organized and painfully forgetful version of my old self. And though some might applaud this dynamic shift in humanity, I am resolved to accept the tragic loss of the girl who always got shit done and never left a wallet full of money on the counter at Trader Joe’s during Christmas (thanks for not snaking that $50 when you chased me out to my car “cashier dude,” you deserve a raise)!
The sad part of all is that it’s only going to get worse. I’m not going to wake up tomorrow morning, leap out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a 26-year-old on a first date and magically remember where I put that fucking can of chickpeas last night. And the likelihood of me ever finding the insurance card that I know I left on my desk is minimal, at best. But there will come a day when the constant pinging in my ear that tells me I need to find something will subside into a dreamy, contemptuous whisper...
Who gives a shit? Go back to bed... And that's exactly what I'll do.
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