I never know what is going to set me off. It's usually something small. Small, but significant enough to send me on a one way train to Crazytown. Tonight I kicked something with my foot on my way to bed, and the object in question did not belong to me, yet it was inhabiting my sacred space, my jurisdiction, and the aforementioned object frequently finds it's way into my space, continually under my feet, even though I ask, beg, plead and scream for it to be removed. You see, I am not talented in the art of housekeeping, and doing a few loads of laundry or cleaning the kitchen are about the extent to which I am willing to perform on a daily basis, so any item finding it's way into my path makes a permanent mark on my soul, a failure of my duties, an inadequacy that I have never mastered this piece of my life. Anything or anyone who adds to my clutter and disarray is just making my life that much harder, that much more dismal and frustrating. This being the hundreth time kicking such an object, I lost it. I began spiralling down into an "episode," if you will, of desperation, panic. "Why me?" I began. "Why do they do this to ME?" I become agitated, I cannot sleep. The list of actions I must take to get this house and it's occupants whipped into shape is long and will take years to complete. I am overwhelmed. I realize I am in Crazytown yet again, and I try to find my way back home. Home is where a mom can just pick up her kid's soccer shin guards off of the floor of her bathroom, brush her teeth, kiss her husband goodnight, and go to sleep. There's no place like home.