Read It and Weep

I lost my iPod some time on Tuesday. I hate my life.

I mean, I knew this had to happen eventually—that’s why I never purchased one to begin with. When I was in elementary school, I was always losing very basic and vital items, like my sweater, backpack, and glasses case. I remember my mother’s tight lip as she tried not to yell and began a search-and-rescue mission more focused than a Navy SEAL. Her biggest concern, being a single mom, was how we’d pay for a new version of whatever I’d lost, and I felt it, too (glasses ain’t cheap!). I think this had a profound impact on my adult life, as I always try to avoid having nice things for fear of losing them.* It wasn’t until I was going to Oz that I thought getting one of these newfangled Apple gizmos would be practical. And even then, I inherited one from an elite gay visionary who was upgrading.

The word “sassafrass” was etched on the back.

I miss it so much.

It’s amazing how something so minor can cause a shame spiral. I am gutted. I'm replaying every moment in the last 48 hours, wondering where it could have gone. I remember hearing the echo of an object hitting the subway platform on Tuesday night as I exited the subway—did it fall from my bag without me even knowing??????? I can't stop shaking.

As if my work trip wasn’t going to suck enough, I’m now without my music.

The best way to deal with self-loathing is to get out of self, and thank goodness for a friend who knows how I feel about the D. I received the following link this morning and it really helped me check myself before I wreck myself:

Half of Detroit Can’t Read. The gist:

Forty-seven percent of adults in Detroit are functionally illiterate. That means almost half of residents can't do basic things like read a newspaper, fill out a job application or other forms, or understand the instructions on a medicine bottle.

Guys, this is getting out of control. First T-Baby, then old ladies scamming folks, and now everyone’s illiterate?????? I used to joke about Detroit being the city that God forgot, but maybe I wasn’t that far off.

I guess I should just be glad I could read and write my way to making enough money to buy a gay visionary’s hand-me-down iPod in the first place.


*paging Dr. Freud—Jewboo, does this explain my fear of letting love in?