DISCLAIMER: Chad Christensen had influence over the writing of this article. (I better get an A for saying that.)

 
How many times a day can a person lose their keys? Five. The answer is five or greater, but no less.

 
In fact it seems that losing just about anything has become a part of my daily routine.

 
Eight thirty-wake up. Nine-thirty, actually physically get out of bed. Nine-thirty one, realize the time and stumble around my bedroom tripping over inanimate objects that were left on the floor.

 
Nine-thirty five, get ready to head out the door. Nine-thirty five and four seconds, realize I can’t find my keys. Nine-thirty six, contemplate whether being locked out of my house tonight is worth not having to run into your class late and out of breathe after the four flights of stairs in Humanities.

 
Nine-fifty, find keys under a pile of stuff on my desk where I set them last night so I wouldn’t lose them in the first place, curse at myself, and run out the door in an effort to make it to the class that started twenty minutes ago.

 
This pattern seems to continue on throughout the day interchangeably between my keys, phone, books and student ID.

 
By the time I reach my front door at around eight o’clock at night, I’m down on my knees in a praying position in twenty degree weather scraping the sides of my backpack trying to find the one thing that I need to help end my suffering (first world style.)

 
When the small rounded key finally appears mockingly between my fingers, my sanity is long gone. I guess what I’m saying is you could call me a loser.

 
This semester has reflected that more than any other it seems. With the finish line barely out of reach my motivation, patience, as well as time management skills are the same status as my keys: lost five times a day.

 
I have no idea what in the banana chip muffins is going on anymore. I mean for goodness sakes, I just used banana chip muffins as an expression in place of the f-bomb.

 
I’m shivering like a pug who lost its eye in a battle over a pizza crust with a vicious raccoon just thinking about all of the crap I have due by the end of this week.

 
Much like the warrior pug, all I want to do is drag my butthole across the floor, hump rounded objects, eat Kibbles and Bits and pee freely whenever I am displeased with something. Every inch of this place would be marked with urine if that were the case.

 
My ramblings about my failure to keep track of my life aren’t exactly article worthy, and if you’ve made it this far, well, I consider you a close friend.

 
The moral of this slightly fabricated story is more or less a question for all of you “losers” out there rocking back in forth in the corner with me; how does it ever become this way?

 
I don’t think a single one of use deserve this overwhelming feeling of attack from school, work, basic human relationships, etc.

 
I think what we all need to do is help ourselves up off the ground, try to make a to-do list and purchase a very long attachable keychain that lights up and sounds off an alarm whenever it goes missing.

 
This is to all of you one-eyed pugs out there reminiscing about the days of dumpster diving for pizza crusts, don’t let the raccoons get you down man. We’re almost through.