All my thoughts are jumbled up like puzzle pieces on the floor, so I'll try and find the corners. Make a little sense.

I've been dealing with (as if it's some kind of merchant, and I guess it is) clinical depression for the past couple of weeks. Do the things behavioral therapy tells me to once again, which means I have to stop hiding my face in the laundry. So unoriginal, but it works. I would make a terrible repressed wife, just throw myself off the bridge and end my story. I want to kiss someone. I danced with my brother this morning to "Shall We Dance," teaching him to waltz for ballroom dance tryouts. I read The Perks of Being a Wallflower and felt that much better about life. Watched Far From Heaven, rented Real Women Have Curves for when I feel better. Bought Enigma, because it makes me think of HP junkie-like things. Nita knows why. Bruce Springsteen asks me how I live broken-hearted. I look at him, keep breathing, feel everything curled up inside my belly and tell him that I don't know. I guess you don't.

It's raining and I feel like Hemingway.

You know when someone else is gluing something (or this could be an experience unique to me) and you're standing there, holding the pieces in place while the glue sets, and shifts into something hard. Solid. Meanwhile, your arms are starting to burn from holding it up. The glue sticks to you, white tack painted onto your fingertips.

I'm rubber and you're glue--

You're holding it so they can glue their life back together. But you're baking bread and it's going to burn. Everything you are is crumbling. All you can do is to construct an elaborate metaphor in between cleaning and holding and gluing so you won't feel like everything you are will just s l o w down and crumble until you (fall) apart.

I feel like that.

I feel infinite.

That, my friends, is the best thing ever.