This is about where I'm at right now.

Engine Overload

TALK ABOUT A ROUGH WEEK, I can hardly walk out the door standing up. It's been tough, I've had bad luck, my mind is tethered. I'd hate to spread the despair but I'm not kidding, I'm so sorely stuck in this rut,

I can't get up.

And mattering most is the slow coast toward serenity. The day it all pays off. The cumulation of energy gifted to success attempts, where time and effort parallel progress. I'm positively stalled.

"You don't realize how buried you are until you start digging yourself out and you're still buried. You just keep going and take it a day at a time."

—Jim, hoarder from TLC's Hoarders: Buried Alive

In some ways, I was well then

In many ways, I am better now

In all ways I miss the way it was.

Meltdown. Coming.

Fast.

The best way out

is always through.

(Robert Frost)

A year ago today I was on a transatlantic flight, about to embark on the most beautiful two months of my life.

And I miss it every day.

True, true, and true!

The Longest Rain in March

YOU ARE LONG. I don't care where you came from or how you made it to this day, you're the most significant abbreviation of living. It's like clear water, the catch-them-all, the longest rain in March. I can see us sitting at a picnic table someday, in, say, late July, sticking and chipping paint from the wood, enjoying. We'll be.

I don't know where we'll start, but we won't end. Together we'll become dehydrated, turn around and lost, sparks shelling from our darnd'est moments. We'll be night watchers, hitchhikers, safety and danger and later, dancing on the floor in laughter. (It will be beautiful, too.)

I don't care where you are or how you got there. There's twelve months a year and I've yet to find a time in my mind more fragile or well-spent. I don't care if you're like blue or smell stained, I don't care if you've lost or you're smooth or chipped or taken. We've been dehydrated and that's that—and you cannot take away that thirst.

You, the longest rain in March, fall in sheets, so long

and so slow.

How to Order a Taco Salad

THERE ARE SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD. Some people find the Taj Mahal, or Great Wall of China to be inspiring. Yet others are moved by the diligence of the London sewage system, Machu Picchu, or the Tilt-a-Whirl. Some people are still fascinated by toasters.

What fascinates me are articulate people, in particular those that have a knack for communicating things that aren't particularly gracefully communicated. For example, I was sitting at my studio desk the other day when a friend passed by and said, "I'm going downstairs to take a poop in the theater kids' bathroom." She said it in perfect English, with perfect confidence, and with a perfectly straight face. That's communication. Granted we don't all pass along this type of information—and seldom are we prodded for it—it's still an admirable gesture in my eyes. It's hard to talk about a bowel movement with such eloquence.

Each day presents a lofty amount of situations that are difficult to convey. Many days I lack the words to describe what's going on in my hair. A lot of times I can't remember the coffee drink I order eight times a week. When I was younger I couldn't go out to eat with my family because it terrified me to place my order. The waitress would come to me at the table and ask what I wanted, and I'd crumble, and my family would laugh at me—they'd laugh! COMMUNICATION is no laughing matter! I stayed at home eating peanut butter and jellies for the next ten years! Keep laughing!

Even more awkward are certain words. Say "pap smear" or "tampon" and I guarantee your listener will raise their voice four octaves and counter with some "AWW SIIIIIICK! SICK!" or the like. I refuse to use many words ending in "ies," including "panties" (one of my least favorite words in any language), "booties," and several synonyms for breasts due to their sheer tastelessness. I can't use the words "condiments," "thrust," "wiener (hot dog)," or "vibrate", no matter the context, without feeling that the listener thinks I'm a prodigious pervert (I'm not). I'm also passionately opposed to the word "youngsters" and the phrase "jeepers creepers," both highly wielded in Midwest vocabularies.

One of the most hilarious parts of my job is listening to grown men order fried chicken. You can feel the shame permeating when they ask for "two breasts" or "two breasts, two thighs, two legs." One night a woman came up to the chicken case and asked if I had two breasts. I replied—in hindsight, very loudly—"Do I have two breasts? Yes…yes I do." Of course, she wasn't getting personal; she just wanted chicken.

Which leads me to taco salads. I went to lunch today and had a craving for a taco salad. I don't usually eat the fried taco bowl, so I skip it and get the salad "naked" instead. I'd feel pretty weird ordering something like this, but Qdoba actually calls it a "naked taco salad" on their menu. I remember when they first started advertising cutting calories by "getting it naked instead" or somesuch. I stepped up to order my salad and leaned in as far as I could over the glass, then in my most audible whisper requested "a naked vegetarian taco salad."

There's something about saying the word "naked" in public that makes me feel entirely exposed. It was as though I didn't want people around me to know that I was, technically, getting a sleazy pile of black beans on a dirty bed of lettuce, or think to themselves, "What was wrong with the clothed taco salad?" Well, nothing, I guess.

When I got to the till I took a look at my naked taco salad. It was clothed, fully dressed in a deep fried shell. I'd said "naked" too soft.

I started talking about the Seven Wonders, and am ending with taco salads. How articulate.

I'd like to see you do THIS online…

Click the photo to see the rest of the next issue's cartoons—there are some good ones!

I COULDN'T SLEEP. It was the most wretched, awful thing, wanting to drift off so bad but all I could do was turn, toss, tug at my sheets. I stared at the clock for six hours last night hoping for a wink, but my mind was swamped with the world.

At 6 a.m., I gave up. I went to the kitchen and made a breakfast that didn't feel merited, and put on my bathrobe to take a morning's shower, seemingly mistimed. It was miserable. Before I stepped beneath the hot streams to stir awake, I decided to try sleep one more time.

So I went back to my bed, still wrapped in my bathrobe, fresh from yesterday's laundry, curled up like a terry cloth snail on my mangled, clean sheets—also fresh from yesterday's laundry. It was 7 a.m.

I fell asleep in my bathrobe. It was bizarre, it was pleasant, it was the only two hours of sleep I could give to my bed. My biological clock hates me. I'm an insomniac. And I've forgotten how to really sleep.

Very reminiscent of an incident from my childhood—of course, it was my brother that overflowed the toilet (not me, though that did happen).

Six word memoir

Started sick
Spirits lifted
Quiet landing.

Who is she?

WHEN I SEE THIS GIRL, I remember her ways. She took the elevator each day to the sixth floor, lived at a desk, ate cereal for every meal. She fashioned her hair according to her mood and seldom drank, borrowed her anger from lost experiences, sank. Transition was insipid, and she could hardly fathom direction.

This girl took the walk of shame. Her self perception was minimal and her confidence, at best, clouded. She made mistakes on her face, with disgrace, every night. She veered to realms her parents wouldn't approve, and she knew. She didn't miss home.

This girl, she took things as they were taken, generally: Literal, cynical, dilapidated. She walked alone in the dark twice a night, keys between her knuckles, eyes toward the crosswalk. She said yes, she said no. She changed.

When I see this girl, I feel strength because she was strong, but weaker than I am today. And she has proved herself wrong.

I'M NOT ALONE!

Thank you!

Hanging on, to all I've left to hold on to

WHEN I FEEL LIKE GARBAGE, I listen to U2—specifically, Joshua Tree. I'm being inundated by deadlines, sickness, sleeplessness, criticism, and more deadlines. I feel poor, I've no desire to hang out with anyone, and it's been days since I've had a nice laugh. I've fallen into habits of taking the long way and in the end, getting the short end of the stick. I feel like the only thing keeping me alright are the cards I've received from my mom. I really, really need me time—whatever that necessitates, I don't care. I just need a break.

My craze has been brought on by the domino effect meeting a vicious cycle. I've put things off too long, had to stay up too late to catch up, gotten stressed about it, spent money to make up for the stress, worked to make more money, haven't had time for homework because of work, on and on and on and on. I feel crazy, honestly. The other night I couldn't think straight, so I went to the grocery store—where I go when I need to remove myself from frustration. I can tell you few details of the visit other than I stared—literally—at cookies in the International Foods section for about 20 minutes, longed for Europe, then moved on to the jelly section. After that I spent another 20 minutes choosing a loaf of bread. I bought it and walked out, sights swirled and feeling as though I might fall over. I feel crazy.

This is no way to live. And needless to say, I've been listening to Joshua Tree all day.

I want to live
I want to give
I've been a miner for a heart of gold.
It's these expressions
I never give
That keep me searching
for a heart of gold.

Psycho MarchTime Love!

SINCE I MADE A BIG DEAL ABOUT the first of February (on account of it being one of my favorite months), I suppose I should put in a good word for March.

March 2010 is going to be the next big thing. No, no! March 2010 is the next big thing. It's a big long month with 31 days, seven days a week that end in the letter 'y,' and 24 hours in each day. Surprising? March also boasts the Ides of March, when Caesar was murdered. As if that's not excitement enough, there's St. Patty's Day (Leprechaun Awareness Day, because we should be excessively aware of something every month), the anniversary of getting my braces (I always celebrate this), a few breakup anniversaries in there…somewhere…, and of course, SPRING BREAK, where everyone and their small dog go to celebrate at the MTV Beach Party. I know my small dog does.

March is also the birth month of my eldest sister (who is easily one of the biggest deals I know), the most annoying girl in my class during grades K-11, and, as some worthless website is now informing me, rock drummer Robert James Affuso of Skid Row (whose hit song was "Psycho Love." Anyone? Anyone?)

What more excitement could you ask for in one month? Really.

Natural Disaster

EVER SINCE I BEGAN LIVING without a CD player in my car, I've been listening to nonstop Minnesota Public Radio. I can't believe I didn't take heed to this simple fulfillment before. It's like a current events carnival.

Over the past few days the MPR airwaves have not been overwhelmed with word form Haiti or national crisis. The word is all about the new disaster—Chile.

Dear Lord. First Moth'a Nature decides to throw Hispaniola into a hamster wheel and roll it around for a bit. Now this?

What's next? I feel as though someone is about to drop a house on me, or the Red River will overflow.