I've always been REALLY into Lists. Lists of stuff to buy at the store. Lists of books I want to read. Lists of places I want to go. Lists of bras Oprah recommends. Lists of the things I think Mister Cupcake should change about himself.
But since I got canned from the corporate job I had for 20 years that almost sucked the soul out of me---since the day I left that place and flew like a bird high over the mountain tops tweeting joy to the universe entire --- since I allowed the air to seep into my veins and my heart and my solar plexus and I got a glimpse of who I remember myself to be --- since that time --- I haven't been too much into Lists. It's as if I were wrongly imprisoned and now that I have been freed there are certain things that remind me of Barfy Identity Murder and one of those things is the mind numbing activity of making a 950,000 page list of "action items" over which I had no control but over which I would be held ultimately responsible.
And so when I live my days now I think I get more done without my previously beloved Lists. It's like there is a Gertrude Stein inside of me that's awakened and she is large and in charge and she cannot be bothered with lists and all of the restrained upset that they represent. Which brings me to my point and my conclusion:
THERE ARE TIMES IN A WOMAN'S LIFE WHEN SHE MUST DIVE INTO THE DEEP WATERS OF THE OCEAN LIKE A BANDIT AND GO LISTLESS FOR A WHILE JUST TO SEE WHAT KIND OF UNBRIDLED AND TOTALLY FABULOUS THINGS THAT MIGHT HAPPEN
When you picture me, picture me flipping those bastards the bird,
Wanda of the Waking Up