A Peck of Gold

Memoirs of a Zoogle

About once a year, I pull out my box of mementos (which once bore the name, "My Happiness Box", until I became older and wiser and more easily embarassed) and rummage through old letters, photos, journals, and various knick knacks. For a few brief moments, I relive my youth, with all it's glorious nerdiness. I think that's a healthy reminder, since I am so abundantly cool now. I have to keep myself grounded, you know.

There is a Valentine from my mom- it's called a Zoogle card. I must've been about eight or nine when I got it. (Bad picture of it here.) If you can't tell, it has a plastic bubble on the front, and inside the bubble is a once comical felt stick-on guy in a tuxedo holding a bouquet of flowers. You tear open the bubble, and then you've got this sticker character to put somewhere. These were all the rage in 3rd grade. I was so proud of mine. I couldn't decide where to display this treasure, this beacon of coolness. So, I bided my time. I knew, the right place would reveal itself to me, if I was only patient. I kept my eyes open, constantly seeking the place of honor for my Zoogle. Until apparantly --pause-- I just forgot about it. Just like that.

Now, he sits, languishing in a beat up cardboard box, the bubble cracked, and yellowed. The bouquet, though not wilted, is faded. He's still smiling, but it's kind of wistful now. His glory days are gone. Still in his tux, he's all dressed up, but has nowhere to go.

But, I think he's still got some "sticky" left in him. I feel a rush of liberty, and want to set him free. Free to be cool. Free to see the light of day after twenty years in a cramped box with my first pair of glasses and a gaggle of bad poetry. So, I'm again looking- for that perfect place.

Here? No. There? No, that won't do either.

Crap.

I guess it's back to the Happiness Box, Little Fella. Better luck next time.