recycle my paper ridden soul

I don't know about you guys, but sometimes I feel my life is spinnnnnnning out of control. Like when there is not one clean spoon left in the house. Like when Style Weekly moves to 1313 East Main Street, Ste. 103, Richmond, VA 23219 and disconnects the phones and computers while I'm trying to write the calendar for 2008, when my husband keeps his 12 foot windsurfing pole in the bed and starts painting the living room on a Tuesday, when my cat walks across the printer, printing random HP test pages, when NONE of the tupperware lids fit the containers, when we are considering selling the house and renting an apartment in the fan, when I don't know what my purpose is or why I even need one, when my ex-boyfriend appears on the back of the Yellow Pages. (Listen to these existential bourgeois problems!! I should be so lucky!)

Anyway, the other day, I put a dent in the insanity by...........recycling. Ten bags of junk mail, rejected drafts, used envelopes, press releases, half finished never to be sent letters, receipts, scraps of things, grocery lists, remnants of my brain, feline HP test pages, I even recycled the aforementioned phone book. I admit, I am a paper whore. I am a stationery addict. I am a book-o-phile. And I can measure my level of serenity by how often I remember to beat the mean green recycling machine to my driveway at 6 am on a Thursday. And it's not often. But when I do, it's a major purge, like confession on the highest of holy days, the ultimate spring cleaning, a saging of the pulp ridden soul. And now the little recycle bin by my side looks so clean, so pure, so virginal. It won't last long.