I get flustered very easily. I lose my cool in about three seconds flat when I can’t find something. Just ask Steve. He’s seen it many times. At least once a week when I’m trying to leave for work, I’ve lost my keys or my gloves or my phone – and I voice it. I can not stand it. I absolutely hate not knowing where something is. I see red when it happens. That’s why I can’t believe I’m blogging about this. It’s like I’m boiling my own blood.
Awhile ago, I lost my SanDisk. Now my SanDisk is one of my most prized possessions. It contains all the documents of my life from my resume to my poetry collection to fiction I wrote to the spreadsheet of the poems I’ve submitted to literary journals. It is my life in a million words or so. And I have no idea where it is. It could be somewhere in this house (most likely) or it could be in a sewer (also quite possible). Who knows.
Without it, I don’t write. I write this blog, but nothing else. I don’t want to write if I can’t stash it away with all my other work (I also don’t write in separate notebooks – just the one until I’ve used it up). And it’s become an excuse. A crutch. I need to write. One day my ideas will flit away and my only excuse is that I still haven’t found my damn flash drive.
It’s time to move on. But it’s hard for me to move on. Just ask Steve. I still ask him about girls he met when he was 15 as if I’m missing out on a huge part of his dating past. My god, what a monster I’ve created of myself. Wanting everything to be together is tearing me apart. How cheesy. I am cheesy. And these are exactly the kinds of things I would already know about myself if I was able to write each night and save it onto the F drive. But it’s time to move on. Otherwise, I’ll never be a writer, and I’ll have only myself to blame for it.