Where Is It? Where Is It? Where Is It?

There goes that human again, trying to write someone else’s story. See, that’s just wrong. It’s egotistical. Why can’t she ever think about someone else? Her husband is no better. He doesn’t write, but he doesn’t pay attention to me either. I feel so used and taken for granted.

Sometimes he goes for days without giving me any attention at all. Then when he needs me he can’t find me. Thursday was a prime example. He hadn’t paid any attention to me for three. whole. days. I mean, seriously?

Yesterday, which was Thursday, he gets up and starts asking his wife, “Where’s my razor?” She didn’t have a clue but she looked for me anyway. He was looking, too, but she’s the one who found me.

“Found it!” she gloated.

“Where was it?”

“On the shelf beside the bed.”

“You let me go to church last night without shaving,” he said. “Why didn’t you say something? I looked scruffy and felt really crummy.”

“Well, I don’t like to be a nag, and I’m not your mama. You knew we had church. It wasn’t a surprise. You dawdled all day.”

Did he clean me after he used me? No. I am so unappreciated. Don’t you feel sorry for me?