I'm soaking wet and my hand can't find the soap. My little green tea lemongrass soap remnant has gone AWOL on me. The water continues to pour onto my soapless body. Uhhhhhhghh . . . out of the shower to grab my hand soap from the sink. The worst has happened. Like fingernails on a chalkboard . . . big footstep-puddles strewn across the floor. I close my eyes and desperately will myself back into a hot shower reverie. A quick dry off and out to work.
After work and dinner. Interneting.
Pnut - "Wooooooo! Wooooooo! I finished another clock. Come take a look."
Me - "Wow . . . it's really. . . nice. . . My soap! That's my soap!"
"Yeah, isn't it perfect?
I can't get past it. I just want my little soap back. I loved that little soap.
"Cool. It's cool. I like it. Crazy idea. Good stuff."
To make matters worse my Mom fell under the spell of number 58. Soon after discovering the origin of the 'fat green washer' ("It looks like a stone. What is that?) she bought it. She bought my little soap. Now I have to put up with seeing my little soap imprisoned whenever I visit my Mom.
It's hard not to get involved in art when your toiletries become incorporated into works.
The sick thing is that I know someday I'll get it back. I know it's wrong, but that's what I think about.
Hang on little soap. . . i'm still here. Don't dry out on me. I'll come back for you.