It's not fair *whinging* When

It's not fair *whinging* When I press "stop" and then "delete" the email I didnt want to send, the email program shouldn't just *secretly* still send it. Now I look like a 'narna for sending a TRUCK of a .pdf via email. *groan* How to Look Like a Dick in One Easy Step. Thanks, Microsoft Outlook. In brighter news ... wait.. there isn't any. You don't get to choose where you're born, or who to [or to whom]. You have no say over your life's beginnings and sometimes the situation you are born into restricts a lot of your decisions and many options - but, in a broad sweep of my brush I need to say - Life is about choices. No one *makes* me work as hard as I do at times, I choose to do that. There is no such thing as "workaholism". There is slavery, and there is choice. There doesn't need to be a 12 step program and a brochure at the local Health in the Workplace centre on this subject. Last night's New Zealand Documentary was an hour long clap-trap of a bunch of people having their primary relationship with work - they choose it to be so. They might be avoiding intimacy, or unhappy relationships or difficult teenagers at home. They might enjoy the control the have at work versus the lack of control they might experience at home. They might have an inability to manage their time properly or have an inability to say "no". They might have a need-to-please. They might have a drive. A Passion. A plan. Hell, they might just like_to_work! They might have a lot of things but an addiction is not one of them. I'm beginning to think the term "addiction" is a crock of shit. Whereas, duh, that was a no-brainer. Speaking of Havoc (and you might only get that if you're a kiwi. Havoc and Newsboy?) and here, more information on toxoplasmosis - a beautiful powerpoint presentation, complete with a chicken and egg graphic.
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My dentist is Spanish.

My dentist is Spanish. His name is Mr Remos. He wanted to know if I had much nervousness. I don't usually, but this time I did. He wanted to "'splain to me" that I was "not the teethbrushing correctively", and that I had "one or two little pads of deacying" but that they were "too small to fill up with... stuff." He x-rayed me a couple of times for no reason he cared to divulge (or if he did, I didn't catch it). Just to make me feel extra safe and secure, he would run to the corner of the room to join his two assistants (always worrying when your dentist needs that much assistance) before far too emphatically pointing at one of them and exclaiming "Go!" The subsequent slight humming noise the machine made was a bit of an anticlimax. Last time I went to the dentist, I hadn't been for five years and everything was fine. This time I've left it six months and I'm riddled with decay. There's a lesson there for us all, but I don't know what it is. Oh yeah - one more thing - hello! I'm new.
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