Friday, Friday, Friday. I'm trying very hard not to let anyone steal my sunshine today - after all, there is a GAME tonight, and I'm excited. But before the game, there's 50, 000 things to do, and technology is not my friend today. I need to load a program on my new PC, and of course I can't find the damn CD. My filing system doesn't suck, it's just non-existent, and if there were ever an earthquake, I'd be found buried under a stack of fallen CD's, no doubt clutching the one I can't find right now, because I'm sure it's in here. Somewhere. Has to be. I didn't eat it. And they don't make good coasters. I'd use my old PC to run the program, but I have a test machine set up in it's old spot - a test machine that crapped out on the install yesterday, and I'm not touching it again until someone in CSI tells me what I did wrong, since I'm positive it's my fault. People laugh at my dual PC/dual flat panel setup/dual keyboard and mouse (I know - get a KVM. But it's so much nicer to have both available at the same time, or to be able to work on one while watching the other). Maybe if I cleaned my desk, I'd find my software. Or maybe I'll just play one more hand of Spider while I try to remember what I did with it...
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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