Where’s Inspector Clouseau When You Need Him?
A few days ago, I lost everything I have ever written.
Every article — gone.
Every draft — gone.
Two half-completed books — gone.
Hundreds of World Series of Poker official reports — gone.
Thousands of personal photographs — gone.
Basically, everything I’m now working on or have nearly completed as a writer — gone.
So, what happened?
My laptop was stolen.
After spending 24 hours crying and another 48 hours throwing up, my next instinct was to write about the pain this has caused. Even as I sit here now, three days removed from the loss, words cannot express what comes from being severed forever from the emotional reactions I had to different things over the years that were reflected in those very heartfelt writings.
When I felt happy, I usually wrote about it. When I felt sad, I usually wrote about it. And, when I felt angry, I almost always wrote about it. That laptop was a basket case of emotional bedlam.
And now, it’s gone, likely transformed into little more than back-alley barter for the next $50 fix.
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