Ever since I got addicted to Twitter, I guess I haven’t been blogging as often as I used to. There are just so many ways to express myself besides the long form of a blog post: Twitter, Facebook link posts, Google Reader shares with notes, del.icio.us. I am Web 2.0-ed out.

But I feel like there are all sorts of thoughts that I’ve just been letting go. Thoughts that don’t fit very well in that 140 character limit. And I think I’m starting to feel the effect of neglecting them.

To start: the worry and the dread are coming back again, despite maximal medication.

I am clearly doing something horrifically wrong with my life, and it’s probably going to kill me if I don’t fix it soon.

So what started out as a reasonably good weekend turned into a total nightmarish disaster, all on the account of such a small thing as a stupid car key, the story of which I’ll get to. Eventually.

On Saturday, I tried to run a bunch of errands. I ended up waking up several hours later than I had hoped to, but nonetheless managed to get a hair cut, get my car smog checked, and then grab breakfast. I’ve been hanging out a lot a Cafe Milano lately. Maybe camping would be a more accurate term. I haven’t decided yet whether it’s actually therapeutic, or whether I’m merely enabling my OCD potential. I have a feeling we’ll find out soon enough.

So S. crochets hats, which she says helps her relax and stop worrying. The repetition and the simplicity (I’ll take her word for it) are quite soothing. The end-products are quite useful, and she gives them out as gifts.

I have since discovered that mapmaking happens to be my simple, repetitive exercise that makes me stop worrying about the world. I realize I’ve been doing this since I was a little kid. (Have I been anxious since then?) But it hasn’t been until the last few months that I’ve been spending hours at a time drawing maps of imaginary places. Not quite as useful as a hat. Actually, most people who have seen them immediately think of that Russell Crowe movie “A Beautiful Mind”, which is not at all reassuring. When they finally lock me up in the psych ward neurobehavioral unit, I’m sure this is what I’ll be doing all day and all night. Although they probably won’t let me have sharp objects, so I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I digress.

We’re not even talking about maps about fantasy worlds (although I have made those as well.) What I’ve been drawing are road maps.

There is a soothing ritual to them. First I draw the coastline, then the rivers, then I approximate the hills and mountains. After that, I find a spot for a crossroads, draw the major highways, and then fill in from there. Some are more convincing than others. (I’ll have to upload them when I get more time.) None of them are probably places anyone would ever live.

So that’s what I’ve been doing at the cafes lately. Trying to get my mind off of issues that are increasingly more and more pressing.

After I finish yet another map, I decide that it’s time to get on with my errands. The next thing on my list was to get rid of the stupid PDA that my residency program lent to me, which I never used, because it was simply impractical. So I drove over to work, snuck into the chiefs’ office, and left it there.

To my horror and infinite regret, I discover that I no longer had my car key.

Now, I had been ignoring this issue for quite a while now. The corner of the key had cracked, meaning that the key would easily slip off the key chain. This had, in fact, happened several times over the past few weeks, and I kept swearing that I would find some Crazy Glue. It even happened that Saturday morning, when I gave the key to the mechanic who performed the smog check.

I retraced my steps carefully. No dice. I peered into my car from all humanly achievable angles, to no avail. I wasn’t about to call AAA to open up my car, only to discover that the key wasn’t even in there.

And the nearest copy of the key was 150 miles away, in L.A., at my parents’ house.

Meanwhile, I had to figure out a way to get out of Kearney Mesa.

One of the more infuriating things about San Diego is that there are several parts of town where the only traversable route is a freeway. Many sections of the city don’t have surface street alternates. It is literally the highway, or no way. When you’re in a car, this is merely irritating. When you’re on foot, this can mean walking several miles out of your way.

I managed to navigate my way to Fashion Valley. Turns out that this is only 3.9 miles, which according to Google Maps, should only take 12 minutes. Provided you have a conveyance powered by an internal combustion engine. With my out-of-shape sorry ass, it took nearly two hours.

I did contemplate trying to walk upriver towards Texas Street, but the 805 bridge loomed very, very, very far away, and I decided that the better part of valor would be to just take the trolley.

After clambering out of Rio Vista and onto Qualcomm Way, I started walking south. By the time I crossed the 8 and got to the bottom of that godforsaken hill, I realized that I was overmatched. I waited for the bus, which took me up that hellish incline, and deposited me within steps of my apartment.

Luckily, the street I live on is on a major bus route, so I wind and wend my way to Downtown. I overhear a girl having a conversation with the bus driver. Apparently she had flown out from Atlanta the day before, at the behest and accommodation of an unnamed party. Things didn’t turn out so well, and she was now trying to figure out how to get to the Greyhound depot to take a bus back to the ATL. So I guess that ought to put things into better perspective for me.

I arrive at Santa Fe Depot to discover that it is infested by high school kids all dressed up for prom. Apparently they were all taking the train up to Anaheim. (Grad night?) I find myself a seat and commence drawing yet another useless map. I finally make it to Union Station in L.A. around midnight.

My sister and her boyfriend pick me up, which is slightly awkward because me and my sister haven’t spoken to each other for nearly four months, ever since we got into a huge fight about one of the dogs. If you asked me to try to recall what exactly it was about, it would probably take me a while to remember. Like most of these violent, emnity-causing arguments, I’m sure it was for a completely stupid reason, but me and her are stubborn like that, and while I know life is too short to hold grudges, she really knows how to piss me off.

Be that as it may, I finally went to sleep around 1 a.m., although I woke at least twice in the middle of the night. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. It can’t be a good sign.

Turns out, my mom isn’t sure exactly which key is actually the key to my car, so I end up taking all of the likely candidates. There is other extended familial drama that I really don’t want to get into at the moment, but suffice to say, being at home does little to ease my disturbed little brain. My dad drops me off at Union Station at 5 p.m., 10 minutes before the Surfliner South is scheduled to leave, and I hustle to the track.

No seats. There are a bunch of us poor schmucks left standing around, gawking miserably. I find myself ensconced in the same car as a middle-aged, portly white guy and a youngish, college-student-looking Asian girl who are busy discussing Christian metaphysics, on the same order as how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. With the A/C in the train on full blast, it still feels like it’s 100 degrees in there. My only salvation is my iPod. Thank Jobs.

After Fullerton, I finally find a seat, although it’s a backward-facing one, which is not my favorite, since I’m prone to motion-sickness. Eventually, I slip into cool oblivion, and manage to stay asleep until after San Juan Capistrano, so that I’m treated to the shores of San Clemente, then watch the sun set over the sea as we pass the varied lagoons of San Diego County. It’s just past 8 p.m. when I get back to the Santa Fe Depot. I briefly contemplate the notion of taking public transport back to work to get my car, but wisely decide to take a cab instead.

Without further incident, I finally make it home.

You would think that I could relax, but for some reason, my brain is refusing to cooperate.

Why can’t anything be simple?