Aaargh. I couldn’t remember anything at all today. My brain is obviously trying to tell me something along the lines of “Stop forcing me to play internet scrabble until 3 A.M., because I’ll make you regret it the next day, assmunch.” Today, I forgot:
My wallet. Left it at home, by the phone. My plans were to go to campus all afternoon, write an article for the university newspaper, have supper at the campus pub, and prepare my readings for my class in the evening. Since I left my wallet at home, though, it was either forage for berries behind the Agriculture building or go back to my place for a gourmet meal of oriental noodles and Burger King ketchup packets.
My notes. Actually, right after I realized I forgot my wallet at home, I got to my office and discovered that fifty bloody pages of interview notes had evaporated into thin air. Great. So now I had to go home anyways, to look for my notes, all the while praying to the gods that I had not left them in the computer lab a month and a half ago.
Batteries. The gods, it seems, are merciful deities: the notes were there when I got back, sitting beside the computer. So all three of us - me, my wallet, and my notes - jumped back in the Trevmobile and headed once again to campus. Did I mention that it’s bloody cold outside? I’m really not enjoying myself by this point. So when I get back to the computer lab I decide I’m going to listen to some Moby and soothe my frazzled nerves. Except now, my CD player’s not working. I reach in to pull out a fresh pair of batteries from my backpack, and of course, they’re nowhere to be found. And then I remember that I needed one for the remote control yesterday, and left them on the coffee table, resting contentedly like a well-fed kitty. Fuck. I hate cats, and I hate these cruel, fickle gods that torture me so.
Toothpaste. I need toothpaste badly. I’ve been relying on little nanorobots to extract the last toothpaste molecules from the tube lately. So I was going to pick some up on the way home, but (as you can probably tell, from the pattern I’m establishing here) I totally blanked. I guess I’ll be using shampoo tomorrow. It smells like apple, so it better taste like it too.
How to restring a guitar. The one thing I miraculously did remember to do, aside from basic respiration, was to pick up a guitar string for my wounded acoustic. My brother, jazz guitar player par excellence, has showed me countless times how to put on new strings. But instead of calling him, I sat in front of my guitar with the expression I imagine a chimpanzee told to explain Fermat’s theorem might wear, and started jamming strings into holes, pulling pegs out of holes, wrapping stuff around other stuff, and stabbing myself repeatedly with the pointy end of my guitar string. After regaining consciousness from blood loss, I think I might have strangled something and/or someone. But I don’t remember. Oh well, if I can at least remember which end of the remote to point at the TV - assuming, of course, I don’t sit down in front of the blender or washing machine - I see if I’m a wanted criminal on the news tonight.
Tomorrow will be a good day if I can remember to wear pants. I don’t even care if they’re on backwards. Please, God, pants are all I ask.
Sincerely, Job/Treviathan.
