When I had my first apartment in Denver, I lost a pair of scissors. Now when I say “lost” I don’t mean that I took them to a scrapbooking party and left them at someone’s house and never saw them again and just got over it. Or “lost” the way someone loses a pair of underwear at a frat party. I mean “lost” as in these scissors disappeared. Vanished. Never to cut again. Just gone, without a trace. Instead of blame this on my own carelessness, I decided to place the blame on the most obvious criminal, an apartment troll. Trolls take things and don’t give them back. I’m sure that if you could see a troll’s house, you would see mounds and mounds of lost items just piling up in the corners of rooms, begging to be put in an episode of “Hoarders” on TLC. Even when I was moving out and emptying every single drawer and every single cabinet, these scissors were still not to be found.
I imagine this troll to be named something like Freddy, Eddie, Harvey, or something representing his personality/habitual traits, like, Smoker. I found myself creating this entire scenario about my fictional relationship with a figment of my imagination: I come home from work, and he’s there, on my couch, waist wrapped in my brand new Martha Stewart Living white linen towel, smoking a cigar watching reruns of “Boy Meets World” and constantly commenting on how hot Topanga is. Not only that, but he has clearly gone through my fridge and eaten my leftover Chipotle burrito, the evidence of which is the cilantro-lime rice that has entangled itself in his bounty of chest hair. He has a voice suggestive of smoking since the age of 5, and makes lewd comments beyond what any dirty old man could ever think of, “Someone forgot her cutlets today, because she looks like an 8 year old boy.” He’s the live-in boyfriend I never had. He sleeps on my couch, and talks in his sleep reliving his glory days at Sprite Strippers as the amateur night aficionado.
I haven’t lived in Denver for almost 3 years, and was convinced that I had moved far enough away that laziness would get the better of him and I wouldn’t have to worry about it. I’m bringing this up because lately I have been losing stuff, which, is, obviously the fault of none other than my AT. My YMCA card has completely gone missing. They don’t have it there, I asked. I know I saw it on my desk and it wasn’t until I actually needed to go to the gym on Monday, that it had been taken. I know it’s here…probably in my room somewhere, cleverly hidden in some crevice. I’m gonna find you “Y” card, and when I do, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Then! Today, I could not find my ipod. It was in my bag last night. The last place it was being played, it was physically handed back to me and I put it in my bag. AT is getting into my shit and making me feel like a total nutcase!
I am not kidding when I say that I have ripped my place apart looking for these things. This has to happen to other people. That, or I am experiencing the early stages of Alzheimer’s. A 90 year old woman trapped in a 26 year old’s body. Guess that’s better than it being the other way around…but still. You better watch it AT. I’m on to you.