It is not your fault I lost your mate, perhaps deep in the recesses of my closet or in a dumpster the right shoe awaits you. I do know that I bought you to match the one suit everyone dreads donning. The suit meant for funerals and interviews. Bought hastily the day my dad died in 2006, your metal studs are understated club attire but that is no matter. My short punk hair cut and rhinestone snap shirt surely directed attention away from you. Is it coincidental that you are all alone now? Merely half of the bipedal DNA left to support this aging beast. A ghost of you exists: the right to my left, the father to my mother. 

So let’s just hope for the two of us that I never have another proper interview again.

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