"Just dinner," Jilly said, "I have to be home to watch 'Survivor.'"

My phone cord was stretched to the max as I straightened my desk, a daily ritual at 5:00 sharp. "But we could be flirting with the traveling salesmen! They're always there, waiting."

"You seem to forget we have husbands."

"Mine? Worth forgetting. Another fight last night. John’s eyes tell the story, Jilly. He doesn't love me anymore."

“Again, the question is… do you love him?"

“Don't make me say it aloud. See you at dinner."

With her farm girl good looks, Jilly plopped onto the chair and flipped a blonde curl aside. Though I tried to steer the gossip away, the conversation focused on the pending breakup of my marriage. Jilly didn't approve of John, said she saw "straight through his tactics” and repeated her weekly refrain. "He's using you, only wants your money, dear. Cut him off or leave him."

I hated to admit that Jilly was right. Pain aside, I responded, "I'm ready to go and I'm drunk. Shouldn't drive, honestly."

As I started my car, I realized I didn't want to go home. Instead, I wanted to race my Lexus into a bridge abutment. The other choice was a scandalous second divorce.

Jilly followed and was the first to see the mangled mess that had been me.

She didn’t know that only two days before, I had changed my will and beneficiary. I hoped the money wouldn't ruin her marriage as it had mine.

Dear Writing Mood,

Where have you gone today? Did I do something wrong?

I woke up as I usually do — with a cat on my chest, a hunger in my stomach, and a Hamilton lyric on my mind.

I ate breakfast as I usually do (greek yogurt and banana slices enjoyed with a youtube video). I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and popped in my contacts. I looked up the weather. Frowned at the weather. Yawned. Checked facebook. Yawned. Checked instagram. Yawned. Checked CNN.com. Screamed internally for five minutes, praying to god and Anderson Cooper to make it stop.

I had a miscommunication with my Amazon Echo. (“Alexa, play songs by NYSNC.” “I can’t find songs by En Suite.” “NO. Alexa, play songs by NSYNC.” “I can’t find songs by And Stick.” “Alexa, please play songs please by the sensational 90s boy band NSYNC. Please.” “Playing songs by Ed Sheeran.”)

I did all my typical morning things.

Usually, my dearest darlingest ’ol friend Writing Mood, you’d pay me a visit by now. You’d rush up to me with a perplexing mix of madcap enthusiasm, delusions of grandeur/future Pulitzer winnings, and screeching, terrified doubt. You’d distract me from listening to an NPR podcast, looking up bulk grocery deals on Amazon, tossing an overprice toy at my cat for her to barely chase once then ignore, or completing some other vital task.

But today, you’re MIA. I’ve sat down to utilize you — with my laptop, then my notepad, then my phone — but you’re gone. Out of reach. Vanished. Amelia Earhart-ed.

Did I do something wrong? Something to upset you? I swear I haven’t been cheating on you with Pinterest DIY Crafting Mood; we’re just friends! Yes, she’s made me some beautiful artwork and scrumptious dinners, but we don’t share the same deep, life-affirming connection as you and me. She doesn’t get me like you do; she’s not The One.

Am I not worthy of you anymore? Have you gone off to romance younger writers? Hipper writers? Charming wide-eyed writers who practice adjective restraint and don’t overuse the em dash? Is it my habit of ending sentences in prepositions to which you cannot put up? Do you talk dirty to these budding wordsmiths? Poetically? Lyrical? Listicle-ly?!

I can be all those things too! (Come back and I can publish 20 Incredible Reasons Why I Desire to Be in the Writing Mood. Or 30! Or 50!)

Please. Just tell me what to do. How can we reconnect? I can’t write without you. I’m lost! I’m hopeless! I’m trapped! I’m going to spend the day rewatching and crying over the new Queer Eye instead! (Don’t test me; I’ll do it.) I’m —

….wait, wait, what’s that? Are… are you trying to tell me something, my sweet precious Writing Mood?

…Oh, pfffft this letter?!? Huh. I guess I did just write something. Would you look at that?

Thank you, you mischievous little trickster. I love you.

In the 80s and early 90s, I doubt many places of employment had video surveillance of their employees. Mine did not. For years off and on, money was missing from the main stock. Two bosses were fired, because it happened under their watch and one suspected employee was fired as a direct result of this crime. Every 30 days our cash drawers would be counted and the main stock would be reconciled. It was way too complicated to count each drawer everyday. The shortage wasn’t huge but it was enough; maybe a few hundred a month. Any shortage should not and could not be tolerated.

Are you one of those people that feels guilty by association? I am. When I thought about anyone else suspecting me, it made me feel like I was standing naked on stage. If anyone looked at me for longer than two seconds, I’d think, “Do they think it’s me?” And then I started looking at everyone else for more than two seconds. Upper management was responsible to solve the problem, but you couldn’t convince me to relinquish the burden of solving this mystery. I was tired of feeling naked on stage. Someone was getting away with a crime and damn it, they needed to be stopped. I began to watch and listen as intensely and discreetly as humanly possible. It became an obsession. I suspected everyone.

I’ll call the thief Mindy. This girl was good. She was adorable, bubbly and loved by most everybody. She could also be backstabbing and manipulative at times, but in such a way that everyone, including me tried hard to stay in her good graces. She was like the popular kid at school and could get away with most anything with her smile and by batting her eyelashes. No one suspected her. I got real good during those years with my perrefrial vision and I observed her selling and then one fine day I observed her slipping cash under the counter into a folder. My first thought was of the three people that lost their career because of her. That son of a B hugged them goodbye! And she didn’t seem to be doing it because she needed the money. It was some type of sick power trip. What was I going to do with my information? Would anyone believe me?

Word had gotten out to neighbouring offices that there was a thief at our location. I was somewhat friendly with a boss from another office, so I decided to ask him how I should handle what I saw. That didn’t work out for me too well. Apparently Mindy was also friendly with him and his reaction? “Nah. You’ve got to be wrong. She’s not a crook.”

I immediately back peddled my remark and said, “Yeah you’re right. This whole thing has got me a little crazy.” I was hoping he wasn’t going to tell Mindy or anyone else what I said.” Damn it let these idiots figure it out themselves.” I’m staying out of it even though the knowledge was feeding on my brain.

Months passed. Money was still disappearing and my skin was crawling every time I worked next to Mindy. One day she had one of the guys climbing in the dumpster as she claimed the janitor must have thrown out some of her stock. I think she suspected an impromptu count. I silently screamed, “When is it going to end?”

Another boss was removed. No joke. You’d think these idiots would have gotten surveillance by now. Maria, our new boss came in a blazing with high heels and unknown to anyone, video surveillance. She and I hit it off right away. We even hung out after work a couple of times. Then came the day that she called me into the office and shut the door. “Oh no. She thinks it’s me.” She asked me what I thought of Mindy as her eyes searched mine. As I looked back into hers I read trust. “Do you think she’s the thief?” Maria asked. I shook my head yes. And then she slowly opened a cabinet behind her desk and I saw the surveillance recorder. They must have had the camera well hidden since none of us knew. I was so relieved I started to cry before she told me, “Mindy thinks she on her way to a training course. The inspectors are going to show her the video and take her into custody.”

Those words felt like hitting the lotto, and Christmas rolled together; like watching your team win the world series. “Yes! Yes! They got her.” To this day, there are people I worked with that believed she was innocent and falsely charged with a crime, but I know better. I saw her in action with my own eyes. From that day forward all the cash drawers reconciled to the main stock. I’ve never seen her or heard anything about her since. Good riddance.

they say you feel blue and that’s true but it’s more than that you actually feel the color and i don’t know how to explain other than you just do like the ocean- navy and maybe indigo and a whole lot of black too a jay bird’s feather not the weather- for that you make me feel grey. like low hanging clouds and fog and mist i'm lost and i'm pissed all i wanted was a kiss maybe a little more but definitely more than this strike me like lightning i just feel like fighting and then you make me feel red with rage like spilt blood from the cuts i made on the page i just want to sink into the copper lakes of oklahoma that stain my shoes and the color white- but that’s one color i’ll never feel because no matter how far back i peel my skin i’m bruised and beaten and reeling about from your clouts steal my heart i don’t want to fall apart but i never was that smart most brains are pink but mine is not and that’s another color i won’t ever feel- pink is innocence and contentment but you were scared of commitment and threw me aside like an unwanted shipment god dammit

i’m sick and tired of feeling colors

they said rainbows were beautiful and symbolize promises but promises are made to be broken i'm broken you did this to me you made me feel green like i was growing but you made sure to treat me like a weed maybe i am maybe that's all i'll ever be but maybe i'm not tired of feeling colors

maybe i'm tired of feeling me