We had just begun to get to know each other when you scampered away. You said your name was "My Wallet." But that can't be true. No doubt, you're someone else's wallet now. You were fat with cash, credit cards and ID. You were in the mood to play. Why did you have to go play with someone else? I know, Jersey Girl was an awful movie. I'm sorry for making you pay for that. But without you, I can't go anywhere, literally. I just can't afford to live without you. Each time I need to buy lunch, I think of you, and it almost brings a tear to my eye.
Come back, My Wallet. I promise, no more Jersey Girl. From now on, we will only go to events listed on craigslist or squidlist. I promise to take you to one of those weird "evenings of fashion and house music to save endangered Sri Lankan jungle cats" I see on sfstation.com. I'll even take you to whatever replaces the Kwik Way on Lake Park, as long as it's not a McDonald's.
I need you. Your soft black cloth and leather exterior was so unique. Was that suede on your backside? That was so smooth! The way you zip closed was frustrating at first, but now I understand you needed to do that to feel secure. I miss your snapping coin holder, too. That was tight! You are so special to me. Being without you is like losing my identity. It makes me sick to think that you might have run off with my health insurance card as well.
I would give up all the cash inside you just to have you back. Email me, wallet. I promise not to ask you any questions. I promise not to report your dalliances to any authorities. I just want you back. Please email me, baby.