Growing up, there were five kids and one mom and a lot of self-involved agendas.  I guess one of the bonuses of childhood is getting to do your thing llike it's the only fucking thing in the world.

Pat coped in one way by seeking asylum.  The asylum was the back bedroom, her bedroom, the inner sanctum into which mere mortals, my siblings and I, were not allowed.  If she went into her room and shut the door, the message was fucking clear, step back or face the wrath.

This week, a work week full to fucking maximum overload with meetings and staff meetings and all sorts of fun, fun, fun office dealios, some of which were organized by yours truly, has been exhausting.  For the first time in a very long fucking time the ill stress fractures of type A workaholic hell were creeping up on me.  I could feel the "shit I better stay…just one more email…god I am so important the worlds axis is slowing without me" pressure.

The high/low of my last workaholic gig, you know the past life in Boston I foreswore to never let itself repeat, yeah that life, the high and the low was that I pretty much went it alone.  So a long fucking neverending day at work meant the quiet solitude of a completely empty apartment.  I could sleep, I could weep, I could eat ice cream in lieu of actual food, I could do absolutely nothing.

Here, I am not alone.  At work, I am not alone.  I am part of units larger than myself.

I really fucking understand my mom's untouchable room.  Pat, I want you to know, I get it, and could I please borrow your room?