Why Do I Write? I Just Figured It Out.
You I-40? The old Route 66? When you're headed west, maybe as far as Holbrook AZ or someplace like that. There's a red cliff with big plastic eagles and mountain goats glued to it, and an "Indian Trading Post" down below, with a buffalo in a cave. You know that place?

I walked in there one day and the man working inside suddenly cried out, "I can't take this shit no more!" That was great, but even greater was the female cry from the back room: "I can't take this shit no more too!"

Tonight, again, Floodland. The new expensive sump pump was not expensive enough to stop the big Naperville rainstorm from inciting our subterranean well/spring/river from blowing out of the earth and filling the basement. Again. We were down there calling out teen: "Help! Help!" She was apparently offended by our lack of politeness, and wanted to explain to us that the flood was not fair to her.

Mops! Brooms! Shop-vacs! Panicked phone calls at nine at night! Yet another plumber! Yet another sump-pump! More aching backs and frozen feet and a late night of trying to salvage our stuff! Another big freakin' check!

See, it's the domestic stuff. I think that's why I write. I really do. I couldn't deal with the grind of my old life, and I wrote to escape. It's still the domestic stuff. And look at me right now! Cinderella is in the basement standing in cold water, and I'M HERE TYPING TO YOU!

I write because I can't take this shit no more too!

Yrs., Ahab

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