I’ve been having a little problem with work lately. The problem, see, is that I have to actually show up. The problem with showing-up is that it’s getting expensive. The expensive part, of course, is the continuing rise in gas prices.

My six-cylinder Toyota Tacoma gets roughly 18 miles to the gallon. And with gas prices hovering well above the $4 marker, it’s easy to see how shitty the results are without applying the principles of math.

But I did apply said principles of math, and it resulted in a reality that I would rather not have entered into my awareness:

1. I spend roughly $35 getting to and from work. Work is about 170 miles roundtrip, and I go there about five times a month.
2. I spend roughly $7 getting to and from Digital Super Hero’s house. Her house is about 35 miles roundtrip, and I go there about two to three times a week.
3. I spend roughly $5 a week getting to and from the Elysian so I can drink my delicious Pilsner on tap. It’s about six miles roundtrip, and I go there twice a week (usually).
4. I spend roughly $400-$500 a month in gas. This includes all my driving. I think I should curl into a comfortable position and cry until the pain stops.

After viewing the horrible results of mathematics, I’ve come to some conclusions:

1. I cannot currently afford to go to work.
2. I will need a second job to pay for gas so I can get to my first job.
3. I will need a full-body condom if I plan to ride the bus again.
4. I should sell the Tacoma and the Ducati, buy a moped, quit my day job and work in the video store just down the road.

I think I’m depressed.

I have been sneaking cups of chai, lately. It would be easy, then, to presume that I have a reason to sneak cups of chai, or that I shouldn’t be drinking cups of chai in the first place. But really, that has nothing to do with anything, except it explains why I sometimes find myself at Starbucks being sneaky and defiant.

Given that I live in Seattle, it makes sense that I should saunter into Starbucks on random occasions for a chai tea latte. The problem with this whole image is that I’m not really a Starbucks fan. I go there because they are conveniently located on every city block. I would much prefer Café Ladro or Vivace, but they are wicked cool independent coffee houses that are not so conveniently located.

Anyway, the point of all this is that my lattes having been getting lighter. And lighter lattes surely means fatter Starbuck’s coffers because I’m getting robbed of at least an ounce each time because of foam. Like pennies and miles per gallon, it’s all starting to add up—and I’m guessing I’m owed quite a few grande soy chais at this point.

This is irrelevant, of course, because Starbucks isn’t going to send me a stack of free latte coupons. And, quite frankly, I’m supposed to be living a caffeine-free life at this point, so I shouldn’t really be in Starbucks in the first place, getting robbed by the ounce. But I’m there, sometimes, sneaking cups of chai, being defiant, enjoying every delicious sip. And while I’m sipping that delicious $4 latte, I think to myself: bollucks, that could have paid for a gallon of gas!

Alternately: Latest reasons I should hole up in the desert and wait for the first wave of the apocalypse:

1) My favorite brewery in Seattle tells me there is a potential world crisis concerning hops. This is not necessarily what I want to hear while reading “High Fidelity” and enjoying the deliciousness of my favorite Pilsner. I do not, however, need to read between the lines. I hear the message loud and clear: hoard Pilsner (and maybe some corn and wheat and rice and gas, while I’m at it).

2) It’s May, which means it’s spring, which means I shouldn’t be shivering in my appropriate spring attire (a light jacket, jeans, sneakers). But I am still shivering, and where I work it’s still snowing, which means I’m still wearing wool socks with layers of capilene and cotton. I’m done with winter. I should be rock climbing and singing songs about bees inside my head. Instead, I’m shivering and stringing together sentences of shocking profanity inside my head.

3) My Toyota Tacoma, once the apple of my eye, is causing a constant drain on the bank account. I spend more money gassing up my truck, parking my truck, and getting parking tickets on my truck than I pay to live in my townhouse. Clearly, this is justification to buy a moped so I can save on gas and start hoarding Czech hops for my own private speakeasy, where I will serve Pilsner and delicious appetizers made with corn and wheat and rice. And I’ll keep the temperate at an ambient 72.

When I hear you talking on your cell phone in a public place, I don’t turn the other ear and shy away. Instead, I zoom in on your conversation and listen to the intimate details of your life. I know you don’t realize that I’m listening, because I put a lot of emphasis into appearing as if I can’t hear you: I rustle the toilet paper, I cough, I bury my nose in a book. But I’m really listening to all the innocuous and banal things you have to say to your friends. And sometimes you tell them secrets, but I’m listening, and so it’s not so much a secret anymore. And I heard you say this the other day: “I specifically did not shit on Sunday because I told you I wouldn’t.”

Recently, after finding a hole in my tooth, I went to a dentist. For the record, I am not fond of dentists. The dentist, as you are fully aware, uses a lot of barbaric-looking tools that make eyebrow-scrunching, shoulder-scrunching, and mouth-curling noises that lead to clammy skin and a woozy sensation. I liken the dentist to an oral butcher.

But a hole in the tooth is nothing to sneeze at. An untreated hole in the tooth can lead to infection and pain and unpleasant experiences that lead to more appointments with the oral butcher and his stockpile of barbarically sharp and shiny tools. So I must go to the dentist, see, and cringe with sweaty palms while I sit in the uncomfortable dental chair and watch what looks like meat hooks going in and out of my mouth.

The hole in my tooth, I feel compelled to tell you, is in one of my lower wisdom teeth. My dentist tells me that he does not see many people with wisdom teeth. Most people, he says, have already had them taken out. I tell him what I told my gynecologist: I like all my body parts where they belong—attached to me. My dentist does not laugh with me. My dentist, I think, is in serious need of a sense of humor.

This, of course, reminds me of my other least-favorite doctor: the gynecologist. Over the years, I have begun to think of my gynecologist as the oral butcher of the “down there” region. You might not think along the same lines, but I have had a hysterectomy—followed by complications—and I have had a lot of barbaric-looking tools going into places I would prefer barbaric-looking tools not go.

But I have never seen my uterus. I can, however, see my teeth whenever I look inside my mouth. I don’t know their names, but I like them where they belong. The dentist told me that if I want to keep my teeth where they belong, I would need to visit him more often. I looked at my dentist with something close to a blank stare and tried to smile or nod or say something. But nothing happened.

Instead, in that moment, I shudder. I did this because I had one of those end-of-life flashbacks. Only I was flashing back to the lives of some of elderly patients I’ve seen in my work as a paramedic—the ones who call 911 for something like chest pain but are sick to their stomachs at the thought of leaving the house without their dentures.

I do not want to be that person. But I am, I think, doomed to become that person because I have never been fond of the dentist and his array of uncomfortable tools. Thus I find myself at the dentist with a hole in my tooth. And it’s possible there are other holes waiting to expose themselves. And I think: this is what happens when you spend the first half of you’re life thinking you’re an invincible—yet closeted—superhero.

The song, I remember, was called “Sleep Will Come.” It is not the smartest thing to listen to such a song while driving, but an insomniac driver cannot be swayed by such lyrics. Instead, an insomniac driver will hallucinate about other worlds, all the while maintaining balance in this one, staying between the yellow and white lines.

When you cannot sleep, when your body cannot find rest, it feels like you’re spinning on the slippery edge of a ring in Dante’s hell. If I could exist in this world without responsibilities—job, relationships, worries—then maybe I could use the insomnia to achieve a higher level of awareness. This would accompany visions of other worlds and fantastical creatures unearthing secrets about my being.

I did not get there, though. I did not achieve that level of awareness. I couldn’t shift between worlds because I had to function in this one. I have a job. I have relationships. I have worries. The only thing that felt heightened was my level of exhaustion, irritability and angst. And to be honest, the only world I wanted to experience was the one where I could sleep, and where I could awaken feeling rested and alive.

I wanted to see other worlds, though. I have always wanted to mingle in that “other” space where I might be free of the constraints my mind has imposed in this world. But it takes days of purposeful sleep deprivation to achieve that place. And it takes time off from your job, your relationships, and your life.

For the record, I was not purposefully depriving myself of sleep. My body, as it were, was simply unable to sleep—unable to find that restful place where I am able to fly and be free. I tried to sleep, though. I spent hours lying in bed waiting for the sleep to come. But it never came—never in the way that I wanted, never in a way that felt good. And so I never experienced that “other” world I was hoping to explore.

So I would listen to songs about sleep when I was driving to and from work in that endless state of exhaustion. And the songs would make me laugh, and make me wonder, and make me think about what was going on in my life that I couldn’t sleep. I thought to myself: This is the time to let yourself wander into other worlds!

But I couldn’t function in this world if I couldn’t sleep in this world. And this world is all that I know. This is the world where I live and breathe and exist. I have obligations here, and I can’t leave all that just yet. Not yet. Maybe later. I don’t know, really.

It’s hard, I admit, to exist here and be tempted by another world. I had never thought about other worlds until I had read the works of Carlos Castaneda. There is one book in particular—one passage, really—that fueled the fire of temptation. It is the one where Carlos runs toward the edge of a cliff and jumps with the absolute certainty that he will traverse worlds.

I am not ready to jump. I don’t know that I will ever be ready to jump. But I’m ready for a peek, though. I want to see that other world in a fleeting, random way that let’s me taste the essence of its marrow. I could do that, I know, with sleep deprivation, but I don’t think I can endure another experience where the edge of Dante’s rings cuts into my skin.

Just so you know, trying to impersonate someone in email requires more than simply accessing their email account, sending mail and signing their name to the message. First, you need to figure out what font they would use and how they would stylize their message. Second, you need to learn how to write in their voice. Third, you need to learn how to spell like them. Just so you know, co-dependent clingy person, you’re failing on all three points. And it scares me to think how deep your claws go—but at least they’re not slicing into my own flesh.

The problem with vacations is that you must return from them. Unfortunately for me, while I was on vacation in Whistler, BC, I did not win the lotto back in Seattle. This means I must also return to work. While it is true that I love what I do for a living, it is also true that I do not love working. Instead, I would prefer—and perhaps love—to spend my time goofing off. This includes, but is not limited to, the following: snowboarding, kayaking, hiking, rock climbing, drinking beer, gaming, reading, riding motorcycles, writing poetry, etc.

Sometimes my shoelaces unravel at inconvenient times. It seems inappropriate, at the time, to pause whatever I’m doing to drop to my knees and tie my shoe. I might be in line at the bank, in a meeting with my peers, sitting at the bar of my favorite brewery. If I drop down or bend over, the band of my flashy-colored underwear will show and someone will surely look over and shout: “Hey, she’s wearing a pink thong!” (Note: I don’t actually wear a thong. I’m merely using a pink thong as an example. I might, however, have at least one pair of pink underwear.)

So I will look downward, carefully eying my laces to monitor their position, trying very casually to keep them from slipping beneath my shoe by moving my foot in playful circles. My eyes dart from the conversation at hand to the floor where I can see my laces. I’m afraid, perhaps obsessed, that I will forget their position and start to walk. I must not trip. That is the goal: do not trip.

Tripping, you see, is not elegant. It goes against the image I have of myself, which is something along the lines of a particular Sitka Spruce. I cannot allow myself to trip, and at the same time, I cannot pause the moment and have others watch while I kneel down to tie my shoe. It is not so much that they will see what color my underwear is that particular day. I am not afraid of my underwear color, nor am I afraid of my underwear type. It is something deeper, but I don’t know what, so I do not bother to think about it for longer than is unnecessary.

Everything changed, though, when I found myself squatting in the bushes because the toilets of a particular building had begun to overflow. So I wandered far into the bush, yet drastically close to others with the same mission. When I got back to the group of people I was working with, my sensitive nose became aware of something rather foul. I had, as it turns out, stepped in shit. Given the human-to-dog ratio, there was a huge possibility that the shit covering my shoe and part of my pants was not canine. This was made worse, I might add, by the fact that my shoelace was untied and part of the lace was stuck beneath my shoe.

I stood for a few minutes, frozen in a slightly baffled state of mind. The clarity I was experiencing because of my new medication was merely causing more angst. I was very aware, very focused, and very clear about the fact that my shoelace was sticking to the bottom of my shoe because my shoe was covered in shit. I was also very aware of the fact that I did not have another pair of shoes in my car.

So I stood there, confused, trying desperately to clean the shit off by dunking my shoe in a puddle of water. It would never be enough, though, never clean enough to where I would feel comfortable kneeling down to tie my shoelaces. I wasn’t concerned anymore about exposing my underwear, or otherwise tripping on my shoelaces. I was afraid of touching the shit; afraid of the horrible germs that would lead to horrible infections.

I could do nothing, though. I could not tie my shoe, and I did not have another pair of shoes to serve as backup. I had to get back to my class, though. I had to help teach the rest of our lesson, and I had to do it with my shoelaces untied. So I stood there teaching, staring down at my shoe every few minutes to make sure I could still see the laces, make sure they didn’t slip beneath the shoe. And I had to walk slowly to my car later, carefully watching the laces, making sure I wasn’t going to trip.

I would drive from the Pass to work, where I would spend the next few days doing what I love. And I would forget everything that morning as I got off shift, slid out my work uniform and slipped back into my street clothes. I would forget that I had stepped in shit and wouldn’t tie my shoelaces because of that. That morning, I would bend down and tie my shoes like I do every day. I would, however, remember this later.

And I would laugh, sort of. Then I would get home, slather myself with antibacterial soap, and wash my shoes three times on sterile mode. I would sit there, in the water, and think about how happy I was that I had not tripped. That is the goal, see: do not trip. I am more careful now. I tie a double knot in anything with a shoelace. At work, I wear slip-on shoes or shoes with zippers. I don’t want to trip, nor do I want to step into shit with untied laces again.

My digital karma continues its hiatus, and I am slowly inching my way toward acceptance of my digitally stagnant life. I continue to resist, however, because it adds an element of chaos to my life that I am unable to live without.

For whatever reason, the relationship I have with my cell phone has been better than anything else requiring a battery. By that I mean that it works and doesn’t require anything more than plugging it into an outlet.

My phone is capable of doing technologically cool things like taking pictures, instant messaging, email, web browsing. I upgraded my cell phone six months ago so I could get a camera phone that I apparently never use.

I wanted to be able to send Digital Super Hero (DSH) pictures of my day, so she could see my unraveling moments of hapless happenstance. Sending pictures, however, is not a part of my cell plan.

Thus I cannot share with you the moment when I saw three frogs fucking. Odd as this may sound, but it is true. DSH and I were at the Issaquah Ale House after a brilliant day snowboarding. The only two seats available at the bar happened to be no more than an arms length away from a small fish tank.

At first, I noticed a single frog floating on its back. I, of course, tapped the tank to make sure it was still alive—it was. Minutes later, I noticed that frog and another one doing it froggy style. Not long after that, I noticed three frogs fucking.

It took less than a minute of this vision before I used catsup bottles and salt shakers to block the view while I finished my salad and sliders. I would have taken a picture with my phone to share with you, but I can’t get them from point A to point B, so I don’t bother.

I’ll go back soon, though, with my digital camera and snap a shot of as many frogs doing it froggy style as possible. I can’t guarantee a focused image, because like all things digital in my life, my digital camera is on semi hiatus.