I have a new mantra. It works in many different situations, trips off the tongue, and gives me that tingly feeling that only radical inattention to reality can give one.
27 metric tonnes of The New Yorker back issues. Out the door!
Two bags of organic potatoes from three months ago that have organized and agreed upon a rudimentary language. Out the door!
34 mismatched grey man socks, some of which have been lonely in four countries. Out the door!
Farty coonhound. Out the door!
Six-year-old curmudgeon in weird clothes. Out the door!
Three-paragraph fables about how great a company's motley collection of SVPs are. Out the door!
Fantasies of glamorous work attire. Out the door!
Bake-sale burnt offerings. Out the door!
Middle-aged woman with eye bags/saddle bags/shopping bags struggling beneath weight of 11 overdue library books, responsibility for purchasing nutritious boy-approved lunch, persistent nagging doubts about creative life and burning desire to do somethinganythingohmyGOD about the grey.
Out. The. Door.