This is a post about my office closet space.

I work in a closet. It’s where boxes and boxes of brochures and newsletters are stored, along with the the left overs of every sign we’ve ever designed. And the boxes and boxes of Kleenex that seem to be necessary in a church. Plus all the empty water jugs. Plus all the empty boxes that get stacked and stored in here, simply because Linda-the-secretary is a box junkie, and heaven forbid we put them in the recycling, because you  never know when you’ll need a good box. No one ever really comes into my closet. Unless they need Kleenex, or want to add a box and/or water jug to my lovely collection.

Sometimes, I feel tempted to walk out the side door, onto the roof and step off – only to land squarely on Paul Revere’s grave. Or Sam Adams, or Ben Franklins parents. You know, one of those revolutionaries buried below me.


If only I was.

Rather than sitting behind this computer. Making signs and writing copy.

This season will be ending soon, my sanity depends upon it.