Is it Friday? Saturday? Maybe it is Monday? I stare at the ceiling fan as it tosses a cool breeze and hums softly. I hate it. I look at the laundry basket buried somewhere under a mound of wrinkly clothes that I lift off the floor each day and Jerry drops back in place at night. Maybe the crappy wadded up shorts and twisted shirts and socks would just fold up already.

It's 10:07 in the morning.

My foot is itchy and one arm is a little numb. For elusive and slippery little reasons that skitter and hide when I look for them, I fold my hands under my head as I creep up from sleep that clings like gauze, but unfortunately the day is pushing through. Today is Monday.

Today I wake with the same unanswered questions dangling like tiny barbed hooks from my skin. Every morning I poke at them. I tug a little, but I never resolve these hurtful little problems. I get into bed with them each night, and they don't disappear when I fall asleep. They are reminders that all the junk clogging my mind yesterday is real. All the things I said have not faded with the distance of one night. My decisions remain, but I have wasted a day and a chance to solve them.

Do I call a trainer for Lily do I go on vacation or stay do I attempt to do more freelance work should I push harder to take photos what the hell is my point?

Cell phones and computers televisions cars CDs text messages Twitters email and vodka. None of this junk helps me. How consoling is a cell phone? How much comfort can you really wring from an emptying booze bottle?

Lots of people in lots of places rushing with some urgency to talk talk talk and they talk while they drive eat shop wait in line. Shut the hell up.

I recently reconnected with a friend from elementary school. Through her I will look for myself, because I am not me anymore. I am a ball of nerves, not a person. I spend each day trying not to snag these stupid hooks on things.