If the papers don't stop appearing miraculously on my desk, I might explode. Paper is a nice word for the most part. It brings to mind paper thin homemade ravioli, so delicate you can see the filling inside. Or wispy layers of a flowy dress, teasing my shins with their delicate viscosity. It does not, immediately, bring to mind the mountain of dead tree on my desk and piled in boxes around the room. I used to love paper. The clean vellum of a newly printed book, the food stained pages of "The Velveteen Rabbit" read to me since I was born. I used to love paper. I used to photocopy my face and my hands for fun. I would sneak downstairs, push my face against the glass and close my eyes, waiting for the flash of copy magic to roll up and down my features. I don't feel that way anymore. I feel like I am drowning in a sea of white and black. Don't even get me started on the paper cuts. I have a new punchline to that joke my dad told me when I was three: question "What's white and black and red all over?"
Answer: "Me after filing for 8 hours."
It is a sad day when the majority of my physical contact throughout the day involve stacks of 8 1/2 by 11 premium white copy paper, acid free! Dust free! Millions Sold!
Millions of pieces of 81/2 by 11 paper sold. Scary. I think I need to lie down. Too much paper. Much too much.
