It Sucks to be Me

Last week, as delicately as she could, a boss of mine told me I was walking around with a pants leg stuck in my sock.

I worry myself.

No offense to the Betty Whites of the world, but mentally, I sometimes feel 90.

I’ve misplaced things as large as an automobile. I once locked myself in a trunk. I’m like a pack of firecrackers: I need adult supervision.

Help is out there, I’m fairly confident.

Perhaps a guide dog or a personal assistant. Maybe Apple will invent a implantable chip that works like a surveillance camera, recording my every move.

Then I could push rewind when I lose the keys.

Until then, be a friend.

If my fly’s open, please let me know about it.

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