Ready to Go
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Tried to call my phone—battery's dead.
My keys, at least, are still in bed.
Where the hell is my phone?
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Where the fuck are my keys?
Where the hell is my phone?
Tried to call my phone—battery's dead.
My keys, at least, are still in bed.
You know, I just went through this with my watch and there was no way, even without a dead battery, to call it! Fourteen searches later of my entire home later, I found it nestled on the carpet behind the mirrored leg of a night stand... required me being on my stomach on the floor at a different angle, and trust me I had looked there a bunch of times already.
The trials of stuff in life. Made me laugh out loud Elizabeth. And left me laughing and wondering why the keys were in bed!
I was right there, having my own experience as reader/person--that manic energy-memory flowing--until you broke voice at the end and "solved" the situation.
Nice!
Ah. Matt, you're right about the solved problem.
Without the summation it is the universal cri du coeur of frustration and rage, a bloody, one-chord punk-rock anthem at 300 bpm--an eternal primal scream of murderous ravishment of the countryside.
But then, you usually *do* find the phone, and the keys, and all is forgotten, the grinning idiot in the cupboard of life forgiven...
;-)
Enjoyed this with empathy:)