Blacking out the friction

If you know me, you know that I lose things, a lot. And quite often, alcohol is involved. In my collegiate, undergrad days, I had to replace an entire wallet and its contents, twice. I had to replace dorm room keys, track down a cell phone, and get a new Cardinal card and a new debit card on one, too many, occasions. For the most part, the stories that accompany my drunken escapades that involve losing my shit are hilarious and could be recorded and chronicled in a collection that could be published and perhaps entitled "I Hope They Serve Rum at the Lost and Found."

Considering doing that.

It has occurred to me, upon reflection of recent events, that not much has changed since college. I have lost my debit card twice since mid-February. I lost a very personal journal during a blacked-out, but apparently adventurous and risky, evening in Atlantic City, that involved gallivanting in the parking garages and on the rooftop of Bally's. I awoke that morning with my shoes on, missed calls at 5 AM, and the jumbled memory of attempting to get into my hotel room using a Points Rewards Card. My wallet was devoid of cash and my debit card was missing, again. My purse was devoid of my journal.

I may have a problem.

Losing my journal was far worse than anything else I have ever lost in the history of my drunken losses. The history of my drunken losses is, as noted, quite extensive. I have suffered in the aftermath the inability to pay for myself, to prove I am old enough to drink, to unlock my own door. But losing cards and keys is temporary and they are replaceable. Losing personal thoughts and insights, jotted down dreams and quickly dashed observations, the seeds of poems and stories, and the solutions to problems conjured in the middle of the night, are infinitely irreplaceable. I can't order copies or excavate their skeletons from my brain. This may be worse than the painfully, pulsing reality: someone else, freely, has access to them all.

This weekend I experienced a similar loss. It seems the hard drive of my computer has malfunctioned and I need a new one. This time, alcohol was not involved. Did I back up my files? The vital question. The answer is: no. I can hear the fatal tone of a lifeline running limp.

All of my stories, poems, documented thoughts. Gone. Instantly.

I need a drink.