My girlfriend’s bearded dragon is lost in the house. My girlfriend is gone, and coming back tomorrow morning. I tried to be a good house husband, I cleaned, washed the dishes, took out the trash, fed the lizards, and then, for my final act, the crown of failure atop a body of good works, I lost a lizard. The despair and hatred I feel over losing this creature is washing over me in waves. I took that little shit out and turned my back for five seconds, and now she’s nowhere to be found. It’s maddening to search a cluttered, elaborately decorated home for a slender, quick reptile that seeks out and inhabits crevices. I’ll never find her. My search skills just aren’t sharp enough, and they never were. All my life I’ve been bad at looking for things. Just generally. Everyone hates me for this.
It’s also becoming exasperatingly apparent just how much shit, how much stuff, trinkets, accouterments, pillows, blankets, curtains, tapestries, clothing, rugs, cases, containers, bed tables, dressers, desks, and various other objects of home decor that I will have to sift through and rearrange in my futile campaign. I was really on the verge of turning it around, trying to be a little more positive, a little more upbeat and hopeful. My surgery is coming up, I’m eating better, keeping things clean, not acting like a total asshole, and breathing and stretching. And then I lose this stupid animal that my girlfriend loves. It always has to be something.