Kill your delete key.
Or, if you do not have the heart to kill it, freeze it in a bowl of water. Then, when you have the desire to use it, you must take it out of the freezer and leave it on the counter or in the sink until it thaws out. If the destructive desire remains (meaning you must have written something particularly terrible,) then, by all means, utilize the delete key.
That's what it is there for, after all.
Monday, November 22, 2004
I was at work this morning at six o'clock. The sky was dark and sullen; a fair representation of my mood. I was greeted by towers of mail that seemed to almost reach the ceiling. Nicole greeted me as well. She noted that I was in dire need of a shave. It is not uncommon for me to ignore my stubble until she politely but firmly reminds me of it.
One of my tasks required me to walk across the street to the neighboring building that is also a part of the company. I opened the door and stepped outside. A light rain was falling. There is an underground tunnel that joins the two buildings. Many employees use it when they are unwilling to brave the seasons.
I am not fond of the tunnel. It has a timeless feel to it and large pipes running overhead that sloths could hang from easily.
I walked out into the rain. It was a playful rain and I was only almost entirely soaked. I completed my task. No one asked me why I was drenched.