Sunday nights have not gotten any less scary. Even though I am twenty-eight years old and pretend to be in command of this misshapen clump I call my life, Sunday nights shine the harsh light of reality onto my pseudo-yuppie self image. Literally, mild tremors of anxiety are darting through my forearms and fingers as I type. I look at the clock and wonder what fires I'll be putting out twelve hours from now.
Like always, my day will start at 5 a.m. But unlike most days, caffeinated mediation will be held to a minimum as I will need to finish sorting through Friday's paperwork by 7 in order to have everything ready for the two seminars we're hosting no later than 8:15.
Sunday night. Its ghost swims beneath the week, bobbing periodically up and down, a grim reminder of the helplessness and lack of control we all exude.
June 18, 2007 11:53 AM PDT
I knew persactly whut yer sayin' Bubba. I did a lots of exudin' over the weekend and trust me - it wudnt a purdy site! :-O
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