A Dangerous Place In Here Monday February 9, 2009Posted by gingerbreadman in Uncategorized.
Ever spend much time in your head and then realize you’ve been places you shouldn’t have gone? I’ve journeyed tooooo long in there lately-hiding out from Mike, mostly; but worrying away at other things too. How I could just turn off the computer for months and willingly leave people hanging, knowing I shouldn’t, but at the same time being incapable of just getting the words out "I’m HERE…but I’m NOT, too."
Believe me, you wouldn’t have wanted to hear from me during those months anyway. I’m still a very angry, bitter Lynn, a wet cat that’s been picked up by her fur, shaken violently and thrown at someone. You don’t want to be that person for the most part. And I’m better now.
Ain’t that scary?
Still very little privacy here, so not a lot of time to write, but Mike’s finally gotten a sort-of-regular job in addition to his business so hopefully soon he’ll be gone days at least a while regularly. As it is, I get online when he’s asleep or gone (if the kids aren’t on during those times, of course).
My e-mail addy is the one I got when I moved….firstname.lastname@example.org I wish I could’ve kept everyone’s addy’s when Daniel crashed our system but I’m just thankful I saved the computer at all.
Inside my head today I’ve spent time wondering why I’m addicted to a song by The Toadies Possum Kingdom, a song about a serial killer serenading his next victim with such charming lyrics as "Do you want to die?! Do you want to die?! I promise you I will treat you well, my sweet angel, so help me Jesus". This is not the worst part though, liking this song…I find myself wondering if I identify with the serial killer dude or the victim, and if I am fantasizing at times of being taken out by someone like this guy if I’ve got to go. THAT isn’t even the worst part…
The worst part is the song is a sick kind of turn on. The only part that makes that easier to live with is that other people I know who like the song tell me it kinda turns them on too. But does that me I’m not a complete freak or that I just hang out with a lot of freaks?
And how do I reconcile this with the woman who lives the Bryan Adams anthem Everything I Do when it comes to her kids and best loved ones? "I’d fight for you, I’d lie for you, Walk the wire for you….Yeah, I’d Die for you….you know it’s true….everything I do, I do it for you."
Even my dog Annie. The old battle axe next door threatened to call the dog catcher on my poor pooch after Laura let Annie out without hooking her up to her chain. So now the old hag is on my list. She really didn’t want to land there.
Okay. I wrote something today. Nothing productive. I couldn’t get the hyperlink done, but I’ll come back and fix that when the ‘net is actually up.
The Great Crash Monday February 2, 2009Posted by gingerbreadman in Uncategorized.
The other, is the crash that destroyed my computer for a while. Some one who comes to live here every year or two and create havoc in our lives, and then just wanders right back home again, put a heinous virus on my poor life-line did it again, and annihilated my PC but-good. It took me almost a month to get the hard drive wiped, we couldn’t even get half the things we wanted saved off and onto disks before the virus ate most of my system.
The wipe ate everything else. Including all the e-mail contacts and my cache of phone #’s and addys. Yes. I know that sounds lame as hell. But the only place of privacy I have in this house is this computer, where I can lock documents, have passwords for my e-mail and keep me to myself. I don’t dare write a damn thing down on paper at home because if I do it will be found during one of the many search and seizures that go on the minute I leave the house for a doc appointment or to go grocery shopping.
And then, no one e-mailed me again, so I couldn’t mail them back to shout "YAY! Thank You! I finally have your addy again!"
So I’m sorry beloved people I used to communicate with through mails and phone. I couldn’t write you. If I had your e-mail addy I would now.