I hate filing. Filing is like evil, only in paper form. If tonight all the paperwork in the world were to magically transform into people, and those people were representative of the feelings inspired by said paperwork, I would walk into my office tomorrow and find Hitler sitting on my desk. And on my credenza. He'd be on my kitchen counter and my dining room table, probably on top of my dresser and my dryer too. (What do you do with all those business cards and receipts that your husband collects in his pockets on a daily basis? You'd think the man is saving for some kind of paper shortage. I guess it's better than toads and dead bugs. Then again, I could just throw those out with impunity and not have to worry that I may have just thrown out the contact information for the guy who will be key for snagging the next multi-million-dollar contract (for the company, not for my husband personally, just so y'all don't get the wrong idea).
Anyway, I'd wake up tomorrow to a house full of Hitlers. Alrighty...well, sleep tight everyone! No nightmare-inducing ideas here, no sireee.