I will give a great amount of something, possibly money, to the person who can answer the following question. Why am I losing everything I own? And why is it that the things I lose are the things I love? I don't know if it's just me being extra-spacey or if there is a grand conspiracy out there trying to undermine my sanity (think "The Net" but on a slightly lesser scale). Honestly, I think I'm going crazy. That's got to be it. How else can you explain the gradual loss of my personal items?
The whole thing started last December, when I lost this:
My iPod, glorious in all it's 80 gigs of music. It was my world. As far as I know, I left it on the floor of the JSB while I was cramming for a test. I realized I didn't have it about a half-hour after leaving, but when I returned to my study spot, my dear iPod was gone. Despite daily visits to the lost & found, it was never recovered. My cheap nature has kept me from buying a replacement, and I've been making do with a 30 gig that doesn't hold all my music. It's not fun, but at least I have something. To the jerk who picked up my iPod and didn't turn it into the lost & found, I hope you get infected with boils. Shame on you! Stealing an iPod from the religion building? You are so going to Hell.
After this most debilitating blow, more and more of my precious doodads started to disappear. To date, I have lost countless pro-recycling buttons:
One super cool Batman button:
Two of my Andrew Bird pins that look similar to these:
My Beatles shirt from the 1964 concert:
And one kick-awesome scarf, featured here:
Funny story, I actually lost the scarf while I was running around campus after a dance lab, trying to find the pair of jeans I had brought to change into. I was positive that they'd been left on the floor in the Wilk, and stolen because they were freaking awesome jeans. The pants turned out to be folded up on the couch at my apartment. The scarf was not so lucky.
But each and every one of these losses caused great emotional trauma. Seriously, I couldn't sleep well, food was meaningless, and there was a gaping hole where I didn't feel complete. I think it's because I get way too attached to inanimate objects. Maybe it's because I have a tendency to name them (Examples: My iPod Ignatius VI, or my guitar Montgomery). Or possibly it's the fact that I didn't have many friends my age growing up, blah blah blah, and so I place a heightened sense of companionship on the things that surround me.
I think it's because what we own defines who we are. No, listen. The things we decide to buy are the most perfect indicators of personality. Why would we lay down hard-earned money for something that doesn't express some facet of self? Nothing better encapsulates our likes and dislikes, personal quirks and passions better than our possessions. So when I lose something I've bought, something that is a part of my life and past, it hurts. And I can't get over it. It's not like I'm losing meaningless trinkets. I'm losing me.
So do me a favor. If I'm with you and we leave a place, check for what I've left behind. Make sure I'm not leaving a trail of pocket change and accessories in my wake. Or if you see me on the verge of tears, my eyes frantically scoping the ground, just pat me on the back, look around for a couple seconds, and assure me it will be OK. I'll have plenty of chances for new experiences, experiences equal or better than the ones that I've lost.
UPDATE: The scarf has been returned to me. Honest people ROCK.