Dear, Dear You,

In my keeping away from you, I've grown fondly tired of the mess I've made.

I've disassembled four bookcases. They were corrupted to the core. They are leering in a heap. I cannot eat them at the moment, although it may make me a stronger person . . . and don't I want to be happy?

All the condiments in the house have found their way into my eyesight. Mustard, ketchup, mayo, ranch, ranch, salsa. They are multi-hued saline drips.

I need an IV now.

My electrolytes are imbalanced and my head is spinning among my wreck.

I remember Coach made us drink Gatorade until we puked. He said, "Son, puking gets all the bad stuff out." I was convinced it was all the running up and down stairs bound in Saran wrap.

Many of us were puking, just to fit in. I told my mom about the puking and she reprimanded me. She said she hated the word "puke" and decided to cross it off my vocabulary. So then I stopped saying it and referred to it as "The Big P."

The conversion has made my life much more difficult. Now, in the moment when I am nauseous and feel "The Big P" coming on, it takes me just a little bit longer to alert others, including myself. It is syllabically challenged.

My house makes me feel electrolytically challenged. I've been climbing up and down stairs all day, sans Saran wrap.

Dear, dear you, this move has made me a challenged person. But as I said earlier, isn't all this, in the end, going to make me a better person? Isn't my keeping away from you going to tighten our belts? Won't we grin soon? Won't we blink?