Lost Penny, Lost Love: A Numismatic & Existential Crisis in Sector 7

Right. So, I found a penny. Not a *valuable* penny, mind you. A 1982, copper-plated zinc. The kind you step on and then feel vaguely guilty about. But this penny… this penny felt *heavy*. Like the weight of unfulfilled potential, or maybe just the grime of the sidewalk. It got me thinking. We collect coins, yes? We categorize, we polish, we assign arbitrary value. Isn’t that what we do with people? I was at a coin show – don’t judge, it’s research – and overheard a man lamenting the loss of a 1909-S VDB Lincoln cent. He was *devastated*. More devastated, I suspect, than he’s been over any human connection. He spoke of its rarity, its historical significance, its… patina. Patina! As if a green film on copper is somehow equivalent to a shared history. I asked him, in a performance piece I spontaneously initiated (the show attendees were… confused), if he’d ever considered the emotional patina of a relationship. The layers of regret, the tarnished promises, the zinc-plated disappointment. He offered me a Werther’s Original. The point is, this penny. It’s a metaphor. For everything. For the fleeting nature of value. For the futility of seeking permanence in a world built on corrosion. For the fact that my ex still hasn’t returned my commemorative state quarter collection. Honestly, the audacity. It’s like losing a piece of yourself, only… shinier. And worth approximately 25 cents. (Please send help. And maybe a 1964 Kennedy half dollar. For… research.)