Socks? Screw socks. For reasons beyond physics and nature, two go into the machine, and one comes out.

Some columnist somewhere -- Hints From Whoever -- had a nice, tidy remedy. She said, just put a safety pin in the pair and they are together start to finish.

Not so, Miss Whoever. My fingers are not pincushions, and I will not threaten them so. Keep your Happy Helpful Hints up your ass where they belong, thank you.

Sorry to rant, but it's time. Enough of the damn clothes already. Enough waddling through the house with dirty gobs of pants and shirts and everything else squeezed in a bear hug as I teeter down spiral stairs. Was that eight steps, or nine. Who just jumped out of my arms? A sock? My crappy stretched out bra? The sweatshirt filled with holes?

Early December and a friend taunts: Kendra, wanna buy a bar with me!

YES! YES! I answer.

To be surrounded by a haze of motorcycle exhaust and raw floorboards soaked in Jack Daniels is a paradise to me. I'll barter six packs for laundry.

Yesterday. The day is over and has slipped down the drain and out of sight, but my mood, like a stain, lingers.

To Lily: 180 blog posts since last December 26 have carried us across impossible ground. To live with you, your problems, the stress, the expense, and the anxiety is to also live without regret. You would have died.

My head is in that place where the dreams are dark, the sleep insufficient, and the relief is far, far from reach. I am at the bottom of a hole, staring up at a pinprick of light, like a star that comes and goes as I blink.