I'm not talking about what I call myself when I'm on a Jillian Michaels workout kick. I'm talking about the piece of machinery in my office that I curse for it's size and inability to blend in with my decor. For whatever reason, for many reasons really, I feel like I'm having a panic attack this morning...not like my standard freak out where I go around with a bottle of 409 and hand towels, but the kind where I feel like I'm losing air and having to take slow breaths to avoid passing out alone in my 3rd floor office! I don't have the usual outlets here at work, although I suppose the cleaning lady wouldn't mind me throwing some of her Ajax in the lounge sink and giving it a good scrub. Instead of that perfectly normal way of dealing with things(?), I wrote down all of my cares...some of them are don't-cares but unfortunately still take up head-space...and threw them down the pike of my shredder. This has a two-fold purpose: 1) symbolic. deep right?
Tales that are just long enough.