I’m a Loser

Today, somewhere during my travels to and from Trenton and suburban Philadelphia, I lost the pin that I kept affixed to my denim jacket. It was a pewter-colored cartoonish cat in a spacesuit (complete with headgear), paws outstretched as if flying … nothing “precious” insofar as metals or stones were concerned, but precious in terms of sentiment.
What pisses me off is that today when I admired it, as I occasionally did when I wasn’t taking it for granted, I thought, “I should make sure the pin in the back is secure, because you never know …” and then I neglected to check. So now I’m fucked. It’s lost, and it’s not in the car of the friend who chauffeured us around this afternoon, and it’s not at the Chinese restaurant where I ate the crunchy noodles against my better judgment. It’s also not in the disgusting ladies room at the Trenton train station.
I don’t know which notion I hate more: that someone else found it and is wearing it, but doesn’t love it the way I do; or, that it’s been crushed by someone’s filthy shoe or otherwise maimed … alone and wondering if I’m going to rescue it from wherever it lies dying.
Sometimes it really, really blows being such a sentimental, maudlin anthropomorphisist/anthropopathisist. And this is just one example. Just wait until you read, sometime soon, about the viciously strangled umbrella.