Platitude Paradise

It's gotta be some sort of crime how much I enjoy organizing things. I'm not even kidding. I mean, I hate paper with every fibre of my being, and if I never saw another piece, it would still be too soon ... but I am planted firmly in my happiest of places. Like a sow in her slop. I'm going to wind up with likely 20 bankers boxes of paper to take for recycling... that's not including the 8 large bags of shredded material from old financials and such. (And yes, I said recycled ... so every paper clip and any plastic fasteners have been manually removed...) I'm not sure of the total yet, because I still have a wall of filing cabinet to do. I'm not sure what to expect from that ... could be another 10 or more... which would put me closer to 30.  My back is not looking forward to that. There is also a pile of cardboard and two full boxes of expired promotional material ... and there have been many bags of garbage that have gone over the pas...

I'm calling it: Can you name the creature that crawled up Dani's arse and died last week? For reelz, man. I was not a happy camper this past week.  I do not know what the hell my problem was... but a problem, I certainly had. Work was fine, although there was a strange energy afoot with my boss this week. She couldn't figure it out, either. We were fine - we really do get along very well.  It scares me a little how well we get along... how great things are going and how much I am enjoying going there every day. I'm sitting here now on a Sunday afternoon, and instead of feeling the nausea creeping up my chest at the thought of Monday morning, I'm totally happy with the concept.  I'm seriously so head-shy at this point, I keep looking around for the thing that's going to clobber me. I super need to beat that out of my own head. We are slowly getting things caught up ... Stretch has a school trip coming up that is costing $1500 and alth...

I have to say that the teeny tid-bits of news that filter through my force-field of late have me feeling rather sick to death of this society. I'm not even exaggerating that. I'm sick of us, as a whole. Between the politicians that dropped off over the past two weeks due to undisclosed 'sexual misconduct' and the news release from the RCMP that the number of women coming forward with complaints about the physician they were forced to see in order to have their job, is growing daily. A doctor who referred to himself as "Dr. Fingers", according to multiple accounts. I know that we mustn't assume ... and that he hasn't been 'proven' a sadistic, power-hungry piece of prehistoric excrement... but can I be frank in saying the following: I am so mother-fucking sick to death of a society that allows this kind of bullshit to happen every day, I could scream! Sick of it. I can't tell you that I have been a victim of sexual ha...

Have you ever had what you thought was meaningful contact with someone over a period of time, and then suddenly - like a cold, clammy hand landed on your throat - wondered if they even ever actually   liked you? Even people I don't like can't ' not like me '. It drives my obsessive little mind absolutely mad. I've recently had an experience that has left me with a bit of a welt. It's a metaphorical welt ... I mean I wasn't back-handed or anything ... but there is a mark, for sure. I suspect it won't leave permanent scar tissue, but anticipate a lengthy recovery, none the less. Even by-standers are shocked by this turn of events. By-standers that have a stake in my having no  such association.  Shocked. I'm very honestly replaying scenes in my mind ... looking for clues.  Proof. Of what, you ask?  That an experience  meant something? I have a terrible habit of looking for meaning in everything... I  really ...