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I'll have you know that I've just spent a considerable amount of time searching for x. I've looked in all of the places that x might plausibly reside, and even in some places where I assumed x would never be caught dead, but I've come up empty-handed.

I checked to see if x was under the bed, perhaps hidden among old school notes and forgotten art projects and lonely orphan socks. I scoured the closet, checking in every pocket of every innumerable pair of jeans, which, trust me, is no mean feat. I screened for x in every drawer of every dresser in every room, but it was all to no avail.

I proceeded to flip through all of the books that have stubbornly accumulated by the side of my bed, all of those novels unread and read and reread. Thousands upon thousands of dog-eared pages were turned once again, the worn out words flying by to form nonsensical stop-motion sentences, but it was all for naught. In all of those tens of thousands of pages, the x that I was looking for was nowhere to be found.

With all the pockets checked and all the pages turned, I took to snapping open the careworn CD cases, thumbing through liner notes full of well-known and long-loved lyrics. I flung open all of the zippered compartments of four different guitar cases, and even double- and triple-checked the small leather ukulele case in the corner of the room – none of them were hiding the elusive x I had set out to find.

Only slightly disheartened, I took to the streets, looking high and low for my missing variable. I strolled along the sidewalks with the dedication of a bloodhound, searching in bushes and behind lampposts. I toed through pot holes and waded through ponds and climbed up old oaks until I was finally forced to surrender – I was simply not going to find x. I turned around and unenthusiastically began my trek back home.

Upon my return, I had come to several conclusions, not the least important of which was that I will never be an algebra teacher.

More importantly, I deduced that the square root of innumerable pairs of jeans - old school notes and forgotten art projects ÷ novels unread and read and reread - careworn CDs ÷ a few too many guitars - some hard-headed determination + x = 0.

So, I suppose we all have to make our own x, because there won't always be one that's already out there - and even if there is, I wouldn't count on finding it. In the end, x is anything and everything; every souvenir and knickknack and seemingly irrelevant little quirk. Personally, when I did the math, it came to be that innumerable pairs of pants² + old school notes and forgotten art projects × novels unread and read and reread + careworn CDs × a few too many guitars + some hard-headed determination = x.

The equation is a little unbalanced and completely unfinished, but, well, that's life – metaphorically and mathematically.