There is a cookie company in River Falls, Wisconsin that provides the yums to the little deli/convenience store in my office building (Best Maid--we'll give them their due...), and I eat probably 2-3 of their giant, peanut butter cookies every week while I sit at my This Job's Making You Fat gig, upstairs.
Oh, if only it were my job to make cookies! How much simpler that would be, and how much more joy I could bring to the world if I did that instead of what I actually do for a living.
What I actually do for a living, which is persuade people to do stuff and/or persuade people to be OK with stuff that I do, doesn't require anything of me that I can't provide--I'm on it, and it's all good. Kicking ass, taking names, etc. At the same time, I can see the appeal of trimming tall grass from around headstones at a cemetery, or, maybe adding Reese's Pieces to a giant batch of cookie dough. So much simpler. So much more zen.
It's not a good thing to be sick of talking, and especially not a good thing to be sick of talking while simultaneously feeling like if you stop talking, something bad is going to happen--like you're furiously treading water and you know you can stay afloat for quite a while, but you're not thinking positively...all you can think is, "Where's the fucking rescue boat already?"
Maybe I am just reaching an age where I feel I have earned the right to rest a little, rather than spend my days duking it out with stupid people. Weekends are much happier times for me than they ever were before. Happy weekend, all!