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The Shredder

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? and 2) I don't want people seeing my "cares!" Who knows where the contents of my trash could end up...I don't. One can't be too sure.


Now back to work. And hopefully a normal-paced heartbeat.

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