drool

It's worsened until yesterday when I was in a fairly small room

                                           (if you're thinking five grown men in an office)


and I am not looking into that corner because I am not falling or feeling or wanting or doing

and that dang guy.
Puhleeeeze.


Anyway, I knew not to look because I've already seen and my heart would be broken a million times by him. I give him too much power over me and am thankful he doesn't want it.


So, I wasn't looking because there's a chain of command here, and I need to follow it.

But he said, "Hey, Ms. Shea," in that way that you know it's him and my body turned against me.

The built up spit from the anxiety of knowing simply dripped out the left side of my obviously now paralyzed lips until I opened my mouth and a stream of words were just

I don't know.
I don't even know what I said. I gave out some magazines and did some weird dance and tried to look past him but surely he had seen the drool had dripped from my chin to my shirt and the evidence was


I could've run from the room but I still have a job to do.


Today I am grateful for a new refreshed focus.




We'll just call that the day I had a ministroke.