While watching television I began to wonder about when certain shows had aired for the first time and when others were playing. My recent acquisition of the interwebs gave me a research tool I didn't have before. It was too new to me, I grew frustrated making me stop. Then the behavior of the two days prior began to surface once again. This time I tried something new, let it happen and keep my mind as blank as I can. Curiosity was growing, what would happen? Will it run it's course? How far will this go? It looks like I intend to write our book, Sheila. The problem is that I don't want to write our book without you. That doesn't seem to matter since my fingers are still typing and not what I am thinking.
The last I remembered was being on page 4, having to count the pages since I don't know how to put numbers on the pages. After 3 hours of intermittent typing I wanted to know how far I had gotten now. As far as I knew I had maybe typed another page, but there were seven and about to hit eight if I hadn't stopped. What had I typed? After finding the place where I had left off the reading begins. These are my memories, but I can't recall that much vivid detail autonomously, how did I type in into a laptop? Now I'm getting annoyed. Everything is true, and putting memories into the proper place in my head. Somethings I thought happened later or earlier, but the pages were right, not me. It was freaking me out a little. Time came to close the program for the sake of my remaining sanity.
The television wasn't distraction enough. Questions about the information I need would not leave me alone. Time to try the web again. This led to more frustration. My "fuckit" circuitry triggered and there was no more typing that last day of February. Now my occupying thoughts were about Sheila's birthday the next morning.
What would her pretty flowers look like?
No comments:
Post a Comment