Unfortunately, I forgot what it was.
I usually write a lot about life, so it probably had something to do with an everyday occurrence. It was probably about emails or something… Yeah, that seems like something I might write about. Let’s go with that.
Every time I open my inbox, I have 32 new unread messages. 22 of those are junk messages offering me admission into a “new exciting opportunity” or a chance to try an over-60’s Asian-American dating site. Five are advertisements that I signed up for, thinking someday I might need that service. I will probably never need it, but if I do, I know it’s there. One may actually be important. The other four are most definitely forwards of adorable kitten pictures.
Now that I think about it, I don’t feel like that was my brilliant idea. Also, I was totally joking about the adorable cat pictures. (Editor’s note: No, he wasn’t.)
If I wasn’t going to write about emails, what was I going to write about? Thanksgiving isn’t for another week, so that probably wasn’t it. I know it wasn’t something as boring as my inability to find a pen whenever I actually need it. Seriously, where do all of the pens go? Is there some sort of pen eating monster that follows me around eating all of my pens? Maybe he eats them with my socks. That would explain a lot.
No, this idea was ground breaking, revolutionary, one of a kind. It was so good that Time would ask me to flesh that post out into a full article, Random House would ask me to turn it into a full book, and Clint Eastwood would buy the rights to the book so that it could be turned into an epic film with a dynamic soundtrack and, more likely than not, Matt Damon in the lead role. I get confused for Matt Damon a lot. (Editor’s note: By Matt Damon, he means Danny DeVito.)
This idea would put me in the same category as the greats like Hunter S. Thompson, Sylvia Plath, and Ernest Hemingway.
I meant the category of great writers, not the category of writers who have killed themselves. I don’t own a gun, I hate taking pills, and sharp objects scare me. If you ever hear that I committed suicide, hire an investigator. There is definitely some foul play afoot. I would recommend hiring the guys from the TV show “Psych.” They always seem to get the job done.
If I WERE going to commit suicide, though, this would be the time. How could I let such a brilliant, life altering, world changing piece of literature slip through my fingers like that? Now my writing won’t be able to stop World War III (Everyone versus Antarctica. We don’t know what those penguins are up to down there.) and mankind is doomed, all because I couldn’t remember what I was going to write about.
The worst part about forgetting this, besides the destruction of mankind, is, I KNOW I’m going to sit here at work all day trying to remember what it was. By the end of the day, I’ll have a mental list of random phrases. I’ll be driving home muttering random topics to myself:
“Gummy Bears? What a caveman would say about an iPad? Why Whitney Cummings has two bad shows on TV but I don’t even have one?”
I guess it is another lost piece of genius. I’ll file it away next to my radio interview from college where I convinced a member of the House of Representatives to admit he was envious of John Edwards’ glorious head of hair, only to have the computer it was recorded on crash and leave me with nothing to show for it but a story that most people assume I am making up.
Maybe I’ll have as good of an idea tomorrow. Odds aren’t good, though.
I guess it’s just the blog post that got away.