Gather ye round and I'll tell you a tale. Back the olden days, there was no Gmail. Then a select few, including users of Blogger, were bestowed the mighty responsibility of their own accounts and a handful of invites. I remember getting an excited call from Beth Clark (not a text message). "I heard you have Gmail!" she said excitedly. I think she actually asked on behalf of someone else, because she's giving like that. I don't remember if she asked for one herself. I suppose I could trudge down the archives and check. It's probably filed somewhere between pufferfish and bubble bath.

And now, back to the future, I have some 3,000 unread emails. Mostly spam. I think. I should take a day to look through them. I haven't spoken to any exiled princes lately.

I remember forwarding a chain letter once. I didn't believe it on its face; I was curious about how it could possibly track whether I forwarded it or now. Was there some hidden code that would be executed somehow? There weren't any links in it, and this was before I knew how to check source code. I sent it and nothing happened, not even a virus. I was disappointed.

Now, we all know that emails are being scooped up and collected, just not by benevolent forces. No, only the regular forces. The ones that have always been there. 

The new brain pills are more expensive, but if this is the cost of being able to dream, I will pay it.

It's where I can see people that I don't see anymore. It's like a memory bank full of counterfeits, but I can study the copies to help me better understand the real ones. There's probably a danger in confusing the two.

Emily Haines's song, Nihilist Abyss just came on and the song illustrates it pretty well:

When I walk alone I'm walking with you
When I sleep alone I'm sleeping with you

It's difficult holding so many people in your head all the time. With dreams, it's almost manageable. Even if it means letting them go all over again.

Instead of writing yesterday, I spent my breaks reading "Scientific American" magazine. Then I cut out pictures I liked to make collage. Or, I plan to make a collage. Right now I've only made a file folder full of scraps of paper. 

Maybe I'll make them for myself instead of work. Putting them up at work may make me look a little insane. Limit my artistic expression. Can't have that.

Not being able to go to my mom's for breakfast means I've been going over for dinner. It's nice because I'm not full of morning-grump. I'll talk, and listen.

Now I'm thinking about cork boards. I'll cork up all the images, then slowly fix them to paper permanently.

Bah, I'm so resentful of creating at/for cubicle decoration. As if I'm putting on airs. I want something to look at, but I don't want to be labeled as interesting. That's too much pressure man.

Every feather comes from skin, they hang their heads and breathe it in.

Back at the main office. So far so good. It's got good things, and everything I need. I'll have the afternoons relatively free. Even work some OT now if I want to.

Maybe I should get a weight vest. Or, fill a backpack with sand.

I'm sitting in a corner, which is good. Maybe I'll make a collage. Yeah, I think I'll do that. Read my science magazines during lunch, cut out the cool pictures. Because why not. To the poster-board store! Is there such a store? Nah, I'll be cheap and use sheets of paper. Easy storage. And they'll mark my time, like scratches in a prison wall. But prettier!