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Since the blogosphere isn’t clogged enough with middle-aged women having mid-life crises, I thought I’d fill that void with my own version of this hell on earth. I’m stuck in a job I hate at a company I hate with a boss I hate, a husband who thinks I’m a psycho (because, of course, his family is perfect with no divorces, no felons, no one ever locked in the psych ward and perfect nieces and nephews who are doomed to become corporate slaves… oh wait, I’m supposed to be writing about me!), and a son who throws like a girl.

I finally snapped one day when Corporate HR decided we had to play with stuffed animals and blindfolds (oh, no, I’m not making this up) and decided I’d had enough. I pulled out my old friends: Mira Kirshenbaum and Julia Cameron, and made some new ones including Pamela Slim and Martha Beck (so far), and decided I needed to make a change or I’d end up dead, divorced or incarcerated. I don’t know where I’m going or how this will all turn out in the end, but I don’t see how it could possibly get any worse.

Who gives a shit, you say? What gives you the right to be happy, you say? Well, you know what? I know I’m just one tiny speck in the dustbin of the universe, but I have to exist as that speck, and I can choose to be a shiny speck or a scaly speck or a prickly speck or a screwed up speck, but it’s still my speck dammit and you, Evil Corporation That Sucks The Lifeblood Out Of Me Every Day, and You People Who Are So Self-Righteous And Perfect, can’t sweep me away like a piece of goose poo. In fact, if I’m goose poo, I hope I’m stuck on the wheel of your roller bag right now and smell really bad.

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