Somedays I feel like the “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff…” Guy can go ahead and kiss my ass. Okay, technically I haven’t even read this book. I’m just getting grumpy at the title and pretending I know what the book is about. I’m like the first person ever to do that. Heck I’ll probably get my share of this from people that get grumpy at the title of the book I'm writing, without even reading it. I probably even agree with stuff that’s in the book that I haven’t read called “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff. Oh, “it’s all small stuff” he says. I get it. I completely get it, but here’s the thing - Sometimes the small stuff is freaking aggravating and totally sweat-able. And I know that it’s all just in my head. But sometimes, it’s wrapped around my feet. Sometimes it’s bed sheets and it’s wrapped around and it’s trapping my feet and how the fuck, and oh my god, and are you fucking kidding me right now?! Because, I thought somehow that bedsheets would get easier the older I got. And I’m getting older, as sure as I wake up in the morning with trapped feet, I’m getting older. But the sheets aren’t necessarily getting easier. I bet there’s even something special about sheets. I don’t really even move when I sleep, but the sheets move, I swear. I bet there’s a physics-y explanation for the movement of sheets, something about friction or sheet inertia or the earth’s rotation that could explain this stuff. I bet Christine McKinley would know. I mean I do things, but she’s just knows stuff about things. And while we’re at it, aren’t most of us paid for the small stuff? No really. Raise your hand if paying attention to the small