Years ago, professional wrestler Chris Jericho used a list as his schtick. If someone offended him, Jericho shouted, “You just made the list,” and angrily scratched another name on the ever-thickening pad of paper clipped to his board.

Sometimes, opponents snatched the List of Jericho from Chris’ hands, scrawled their own names on the list and shoved it back at him with a what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it smirk.

I wish the List of Burt worked like that. I could use the help.

I wandered the grocery store aisles while patting my pockets like I was trying to put out a fire.

I was trying to remember where I crammed the latest list.

It was right… No, not that pocket. I must have put it… Nope… Not that one either… No… Nope… Nothing here…

I was about to look inside my shoe. But one, I have yet to stash a list in my shoe on purpose, and two, the thought of groceries — even a list of groceries — that I’d been tromping on with sweaty feet made me lose my appetite.

I suppressed a gag and a gurgle, and went home.

My list was still held by a magnet to the fuse box cover by my front door. I had forgotten my list — probably because I hadn’t written “Remember list” on my list.

Everything else was there. I had walked around the apartment earlier checking things like the egg carton (“Only two eggs left? You made the list!”), milk (“None? You just made the list!”) and asparagus (“You made… Wait, no. Where’s my eraser? No eraser? Eraser, you made the list!”)

My life is a series of lists.

I used to remember things. My brain once was a living, functioning machine.

“Hey, Brain,” I’d say. “The next time I’m near the hardware store, remind me that I need outlet covers.”

Not only did my brain remind me to stop at the hardware store and to find the faceplates, but it also recalled that I’d been looking for duct tape the week before, and wing nut a couple weeks before that, and for an upcoming project, I would need a couple of wall hangers and a photo frame.

Now I stand in the entrance of a store and mutter, “Hey, Brain, tell me again why I stopped here.”

My brain yawns, scratches itself, coughs and says, “Whaddya asking me for?”

Then it rolls over and goes back to sleep.

That’s when I started making the lists.

My pants and shirt pockets are stuffed with assorted scraps of paper covered in smeared scrawl — none of the shreds and shards being the list that I need at the time.

I keep a list of emergency contact numbers — the pizza place, the Chinese place, the Mexican place… The List of Burt is international in scope and flavor.

I also write lists of people to whom I owe letters, texts or other messages. If you’re waiting to hear back from me, don’t you worry. I’ll get to you yet. Why? Because you made the list!

In the wrestling ring, it was a bad thing to make the List of Jericho. It meant somebody was going to get clocked. Probably Chris Jericho.

But if you made the List of Burt, it’s because I care. Or did at one time. When I wrote the list. Which judging by the drink glass rings, was quite some time ago.

Who are you again? I forgot to note why you made the list.

I used to remember things. Until my brain went on vacation six or seven years ago. It forgot to come back. Now, because of my absent brain, I need all these lists.

Which reminds me: Brain, you just made the list!

Get on the List of Burt at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook. You made the list.