grrarghetc.

Can I just state for the record that I really really really hate floppy disks?

I just unearthed the floppy that had the latest draft of two of my stories from fiction class this semester. I thought, hey, I don't think I backed these up on anything else, let me do that now before the disk dies on me like the last one I didn't back up did. So I popped it in and opened Word.

And what happened? I don't think it's hard to guess.

So if anyone had a pressing urge to read the draft I turned in of the story I posted a few months ago, you're going to have to really beg me to type up all thirteen pages of it again. Or pay someone else to do it or something.

Grar. I suppose I'll have to do it, cause there are still some major overhauls I want to do with it. But grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr I hate computers so.

AND EVEN MY PLAYLIST HATES ME! Beck just came on. Singing very sweetly 'everybody's gotta learn sometime.' Even my Beck has taken to mocking me.

(no subject)

I'm having a bad day. I just generally don't want to be awake or around people. On the other hand, when everyone else leaves early from work today, I don't really want to sit and correct data entry crap by myself.

I also just don't want to go back to work at all. Or go chase after a four-year-old tonight. I'm hoping he'll be bringing movies again and I won't have to do anything but sit there with him. Cause that was nice, and exactly what I need tonight.

I'm also being whiny. I hate being whiny, even though I pretty much am all the time.

I don't want to go back to work.

(See?)

I have a lot of crap on my mind right now, too. Stuff that shouldn't really be bothering me cause I should just grow up and get over something that happened way forever ago, but I can't help it. I need to maybe write it all down. Maybe here, maybe not. I've noticed that writing stuff here for other people to read helps me more than just writing it out for myself. It's more cathartic, I think. Is that reverse voyeurism? I don't know, but it helps to know that maybe someone is reading about what goes on with me, and is trying to understand me through what I give them to know about me.

It's why I want to be a writer, I think. That fear that my life is meaningless. That if I were to die tonight, no one would know what I've been thinking or feeling or wanting to say. No one would know what makes me happy or what makes me cry. They're completely selfish reasons, but why else would anyone write?