Taxes and Shock Therapy

I don't think I have anything to say. I've been staring at this blank screen for several minutes now, willing something interesting or funny or insightful to flow through my fingers.

As if that sort of thing happened here.

Ha!

Really though, I'm just burnt. It's at the end of a long day, a long week rather, and my entire self is completely and utterly wrapped around the fact that despite the deadline being mere HOURS away, my taxes aren't done. And oh, yup, there goes the IBS.

I am a list maker. A planner. A finish-it-before-it's-due kinda girl. I have to be this way, or my stomach will fold in on itself like a black hole. The Black Hole of Anxiety.

Which is about where I am right now. So I'm going to go to bed and try to not think about the fact that when my alarm goes off tomorrow morning it will be six hours closer to the deadline.

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In other news, I have managed to loudly proclaim "I'm retarded" to my co-workers not once, but twice in the past two weeks. I work in an organization that deals primarily with special needs people. This, as you may understand, is a problem. Thankfully my coworkers are easy going, teasing me about being the newbie and assuring me that they all had to deal with eradicating that from their vocabulary when they started. But still. The problem is that I don't notice until after I've said it. Something has to be done. I can only imagine the horror that would ensue if I slipped in front of someone who has special needs.

The only idea of substance that I've come up with is a shock collar........