It’s true, it’s true.
Losing your wallet is a very interesting experience, and not just because it’s a unique sort of pain in the ass. You carry your wallet around with you all the time (presumably), and if you’re like me, you feel pretty naked if you go out without it. If you reach for it and it’s not there, a knot of panic begins in your gut and your palms start to sweat and you think, “That has all of my stuff and identification and stuff in it and if it’s gone then I have no identity, who will believe that I really exist? Who will get my free sandwich I was about to get because I already bought ten sandwiches?” and by the time you do find your wallet (if you do), you’ve convinced yourself that you aren’t really an extant flesh-and-blood human being per se, but more a bad dream of God’s, and God just woke up!!!!!!!
Perhaps that’s just me.
Losing (and then subsequently recovering, sans cash) my wallet yesterday got me thinking about Kafka just now (at the time I was thinking, “Fuck! I’m stupid! Fuck! Fuck! Fuckity shit fuckity fuck!”), not because of the semi-bureaucratic non-ordeal involved in getting it back (some nice guy from the MTA was nice enough to recover it from the grime I dropped it onto and nice enough to take the cash in it off my hands since I’m the kind of person who drops a wallet on the subway tracks so don’t really deserve cash anyway; then the police called me and told me it was at the station; then I went to the station and signed a form and got it), but because I realize that my sense of identity is not linked to any sort of strong conviction vis a vis who I am, rather it’s linked inextricably to a set of worthless plastic rectangles I carry around with me all the time.
Also, I had to cancel all of my credit/debit/whatsit cards and have no access to cash and am stuck at work and starving my fat ass off, so perhaps if this continues I will end up skinny, because if Kafka was one thing it was skinny.