Friday, again. I haven't accomplished much today, not that anyone but me seems to be paying attention. I fixed one crisis in the patient accounting area (rebooted, ta da, problem solved), sent out an e-mail to everyone about the latest virus (when in doubt, DON'T OPEN IT!!!), sent instructions to someone about how to get access to our VPN (and she's not even my user - her current LAN manager is too busy to be bothered by requests for such things as secure remote access - the asshole), and created a PassportHealth account for a new user (again, not anyone I support, but we don't have enough security officers in other departments, so I just do it myself). And now it's almost 11:00, I've got to go get Heather since today is only a half-day, then I get to go to my boss's 50th birthday party. It's over at 2:00 - I'm finding it hard to justify driving back. But we'll see. If not, then Monday's another day, I'm sure.
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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