I have been in a growing funk for the last few days.  Maybe I’m freakin’ over the emotional shock caused by lacking weddedstrife.  Maybe I’m freakin’ over the drowning economy.  Maybe I’m freaking over the political scenery.  Maybe I’m freakin’ over living in a godforsakenhellhole.  Maybe I’m freakin’ over my lack of ambition.  Maybe I’m freakin’ over nothing at all.

At any rate, the funkin’ is real.  And the symptomatic malaise has not been improved by the annual paper purge and/or filing that I did all day today.  I went through every single piece of paper that has been piling up: bills; notes; telephonenumbersonscrapsofpaper; special education documentations; court motions and orders; coupons; school assignments; and important crayon drawings.  It was a lot of muck.  Mostly the kibble is scattered in a pile on the floor, waiting for shredding or tossing or recycling before I go to sleep this evening.  
I should be happy, experiencing nostressbliss and planning a dinseylandadventure for next week, but I am blah.
We produce a lot of kibble.  A lot.  Lotsa papers and trash, lotsa stickers and crumbs, lotsa dust.  
And the lilEinstein jolted my state of mind by asking me, “Is there any such thing as a west pole?” while he watches a dinosaur nova special instead of rushing off to zzzzzz’s as he should be right now.  The ePrince interrupts by interjecting intelligent and quippy commentary on the eyebraincandy.  The BigShot has just surprised me with a sneaky bar of chocolate to share whilst the PBS credits are rollin’ and the boys pretend to be settling in for an autumn’s nite slumber.
Maybe I should get out in the sunshine tomorrow.  It’s forecasted to be a centuryhotday again, despite the chilling fall weather of late.  

a bitchin feminista mama at the intersection of political quagmire and real life.

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