Dancing in her apartment, I felt cozy comfy in a place I didn’t belong. It isn’t my home, but the girl is. We put on our make up in the morning, preparing for lunch with our other friends. I zipped up my new shoes,  retail therapy for a rough previous day, the elephant gray representing nothing anywhere near my present state of mind, gray, which was a sunny golden yellow. Initially I thought the gray to be fabulous but turned out to be too much foreshadowing.

She lives on the second floor, and we trudged down the stairs to my car, which was astonishingly absent. We searched a minute more, and accepted it was gone. Furiously, I stomped in to the office of her apartment complex, demanding answers. I had parked there a hundred times before, never without issue, never without waking up in the morning to find my car exactly where I had left it the previous morning.

My car. Was missing. I wasn’t sure if it was towed or stolen, but I remembered an experience from when I was younger. I lost my mother in the mall around the holidays. Seven year old me was terrified, yet practical. I marched up to the mall security and told them to page my mom. After I managed to be practical, and for a brief moment before, fear raced through my entire body. The moments were tied together in my mind, a familiar fear consumed me. Although a car is material, it was also what I depended on, much like when I was a child and how I depended on my mother.

My friend called the people we were meeting, informing them of the situation, while I was unable to do anything but let my blood boil. And so it did. I opened the door to the office, searching for words.

“Um… My car? Missing.”

The girl looked at me like I was nuts.

I asked her if she towed my car, and still, the genius she was looked at me blankly.

My friend took the reins, explaining the situation, understanding my impatience for idiots especially in times of aggravation. Then the other two showed up. I glanced at them before getting back to business, this girl searching for my car was disgustingly pea-brained, and equally impatient with me. I struggled to do the fear-mongering I so despise my mother for using when dealing with peons. I hate her for doing it, but it’s ever-effective. I failed miserably, noting I should have watched and learned instead of criticized and shaking my head in shame.

I gave up talking to them, and turned to my friends, who were in crisis-management mode. The three of them saved me from despair, and kept my disgust to a minimum.

We got my car, and the weekend, anything but pleasant, found its ups in their faces. I looked at my boots as we piled into my friend’s matching car to retrieve my own. I was silent, disturbed at the constant grenades of poo which seem to constantly erupt in my life, directly over my head.  I thought they were awesome initially. Now they became too much of an echo of my problem, of my mood, as a general representation of my life.

(edit, 12:50 a.m.) if only things were so simple as putting new shoes on and suddenly, everything’s right.