Today the phone has been ringing non-stop. "My VUView doesn't work right." "I can't remember how to install Notes, or why we have to." "Hi, Momma - how's your day?" "Why can't I open an e-card here?" "What do you mean, no more stationery in Outlook?! You can't do that!" Au contraire, mon ami - I can most certainly suggest it. If people don't get your mail anymore because it appears to be sending a .jpeg, which might be infected, don't come whining to me. I told you so. If people start ignoring your email because they can't friggin' read dark blue print on a purple background, don't come whining to me. I reserve the right to tell you I think you're an idiot. So between the e-mails, the phone calls, the piddly-assed problems - I'm trying very hard to remember that I love my job. No, really - I do. Honestly. Wouldn't lie about that, no sir. Love 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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