Well, I now know what kind of day it will be - I placed a simple request to the Help Desk, and they promptly forwarded it to the wrong area. That wouldn't be so bad, I don't suppose, except I have no idea why they thought the finance department could help archive this guy's e-mail. Maybe I expect too much. Maybe my request didn't contain enough clues to get it forwarded to the e-mail team where it belonged. Or maybe the Help Desk staff forgot their meds this morning. I know! I forgot MY meds this morning ;) Thank God tomorrow is Friday, and seventy percent of our staff will be on vacation. I need a break.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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