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!

The last day in this office, moving back to the big one. I'll miss this place. The covered parking, the being ten minutes from home, the being able to see my parents every morning and having breakfast with them. They won't be rid of me that easy; I'll be coming over and having dinner instead. If I get home by 3, finish my walking by 5, it'll be perfect.

Maybe sit down and write at night. I'll probably go back to the journal while at the main office. Having people behind me that could read over my shoulder makes me paranoid. People reading published stuff is different; people seeing me write is awkward. I feel exposed, like they can see my doubts. Something I could get over. And should, really. People are everywhere.

I've taken to avoiding eating any free food offered at the main office. I've been able to hold out for the my day trips there, but will I last when tempted on a daily basis? History suggests no, I won't. History also suggests that sometimes I get ideas in my head and I stick with them for no logical reason. I wonder which one this one is.

I stayed up a little late reading old sci-fi.

My commute will be a lot longer, might be a good time to hit up the audio books. Or some other podcasts. NPR was my usual choice before. Now I take it in smaller doses.

Maybe listen to Italian. See if I still have any understanding of it.

The possibilities yawn before me. I'm boring me; time to surprise myself.

Crowded clothing stores, back-to-school shopping. Not for me; I was just passing through. 

My throat is sore. Not from singing or cheering. I suspected that I'd be more susceptible to illness with my tonsils gone. I wonder now if my throat will feel more sore because of the scar tissue. It's not that bad overall, just more sore than my throat usually gets. 

I probably shouldn't have walked yesterday. I probably shouldn't walk today. I'm still going to. Because it's my routine now. Deviating will make me feel worse. 

There is a desire to be hopeful, to be a beacon of good feelings. Or at least not to be a total bummer. 

This is easy to do with my nieces. They're happy climbing on me while I make their giant stuffed bear dance around. 

This weekend was not super productive. I exercised, although I'm still not feeling great. Today I have some chores. Also I have to check on a cat. This cat is a master ninja, so I expect a challenge.