Hell Is Where My Heart Is

So I log into my work email from home early this morning while I’m sipping my cuppa nectar o’life, and I see an email from the HR folk informing us of corporate policy on Halloween decorations – specifically titled (cover the childrens’ eyes) “Halloween Decoration Guidelines”. Immediately my brain goes into a stress-cortisol death spiral and the ferrets rejoice, shrieking in their ultra-sonic voices that I work for a company with a corporate policy on Halloween decorations. With a title and everything. There’s probably an actual document somewhere, with a cover and all three brads. I am in hell.

“But wait,” the newly fledged animus on my shoulder cries. “Hell is a place you can never get away from, never leave, never escape, even in your mind. This dayjob doojie is something you can walk away from after you’ve done your eight or nine hours, and with the amount of brainspace you’re actually using (or more accurately, not using) to get the job there done, you’ve got plenty of time left for mental escapism and the bolstering of a rich fantasy life. So technically you’re not in hell. Corporate heck, maybe, but only if you think about it during the hours of 6:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m.”

By that definition writing is hell. I think my animus is conflicted. But the ferrets got quiet again, so I’ll take it.

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