…maxed out

Today, when I push away from the writing desk, I look around and discover a new disorder I've self-diagnosed[1] as M.E.S.S.—Maximum Effort Stress Syndrome, caused by cramming more stuff into a life that is already full.

This malady oozes out when I pile more onto whatever I was buried under before and I watch like a doomed test monkey, as this particular strain merges and morphs with my previous disorder—the one that someone else creates from the order I’ve just made.

Dear Me,
I have become The Jerk[2] as I exit every room I’ve entered with armloads of nothing but this remote, this chair, this jacket, this telephone, this screwdriver, this blow dryer and this magazine. This is all I need, as I stuff my pockets and waistband with every misplaced item and then I deport each item back to its own land.

I’m tired of hearing, “Mom, where is my (fill in the blank)?” I reply with “Have you looked where it belongs?” It’s rhetorical because they don’t even know where it is supposed to be.

Reality Bite: 'Cause I’m the only one who’s ever put it there!

[1] After an exhaustive, unrelated internet search.
[2] The movie