Procrastination Station

This isn't my first entry into the digitalized world, or in this land called Artella. This is, however, going to be my proving ground. You see, sitting at my computer affords me a lot of happy distractions, and therefore should be called my procrastination station.

Unfortunately, it was always this way for me. I took a computer class with the nerdy kids like me when the computer was still a wall mount and not a desk- or even laptop. It was seventh grade, and I was happy to take home old rolls of computer tape and figure out the encoded holes as if I were solving the latest mystery of Nancy Drew. I studied the punch cards, hoping perhaps they would reveal why Douglas Adams chose the number 42 to be his answer to Life, The Universe, and Everything.

I've had several opportunities in the vast time period between my dreaded middle school years through Y2K to practice keying and mousing my way around bits, bytes, bauds, CGIs, GUIs, and other words and acronyms that sound vaguely obscene. None of which, I might add, produced a career for me, much as I might have liked it to at some point.  

Oh, but that used to be okay, as I did have a real job. That is, until one fated week in December, 2000 when somebody must've yelled, "Curtains!" while I was still monologuing away like a narcissicist preening in the mirror. I don't have to name the dramas and traumas to tell you it was catastrophic, because you could look at a partial list and tell it just was. Even in retrospect, it makes my own jaw go slack.

~~~

I laugh, because here again I am making mental mazes through my list of bookmarks, bypassing the route of circuitry in my brain to encompass the one on my desk in front of me. Frontal lobotomy, my name is copper cat. Very nice to meet you.