I made lists of everything. It wasn’t for retention. At one time, I saw things in grids and columns; perception was a spreadsheet. I like things tidy. So, when on a barren stretch of highway in Minnesota at 2 a.m. on some July night in 2009, I made sure to run through the carefully arranged list of items I’d eaten that day while spewing the contents of my stomach all over simmering pavement. I painted the asphalt with my insides.
I didn’t ruin her upholstery. I slumped back into the passenger seat and slouched down - defeated. She fused her forehead to mine. “At least you didn’t die out here.” I don’t care where I die, but I live for the silence that falls over an empty highway between 2 and 4 a.m.