Hold Fast to Dreams

So my coworkers and I recently went on a day-long staff retreat during which each of us received a goodie bag.  The one goodie that I particularly took a liking to was a faux-stress ball that bears the resemblance of a little baseball (I say faux because while it fits comfortably in the palm of your hand and is very squeezable, it’s not an actual stress ball but rather a child’s cheap play toy … we are very economical with our purchases).  Anyhow, my little baseball-stress reliever accompanies me inside my purse everywhere I go.  The general reaction when people see it falls along the lines of: what the hell is up with that baseball?

Am I under a lot of stress?  Not really.  I’m too nonchalant to subject myself to the pressure and anxiety of ulcer-inducing circumstances.  My baseball, however, has still taken quite a beating from me.  But the only time I really use that thing for all it’s worth is while I’m driving.  This leads me to postulate that either 1) I have a road rage problem and need to take a chill pill, or 2) people need to learn how to fucking drive.  Maybe it’s both.  In any case, if you’re out driving and happen to see someone squeezing a baseball, it’s probably me, so feel free to honk and say hi … that is unless you’re one of the ones that can’t drive and thus need to get the hell off the road.

On a related note: you know what mollifies my vexation at cars in front of me who are going turtle speed or braking erratically for no apparent reason?  A good song on the radio.  My new jam: “Outta Control”.  So thank you, Baby Bash, my baseball is grateful for you.

» i don’t need no love, all i need is the dj!