It's a little like Jenga

I want to get to my other computer; the one with all the good stuff loaded on it or attached to it. What I want doesn't change what is at the moment.

I worry I'll forget. I worry the feeling will pass. I worry.

I'm slightly itchy everywhere I have clothes. It's the same itch I noticed in bed after I had washed the bed sheets. I think I'm allergic to that cheap laundry detergent I bought. It like feels like metal splinters poking at me.

In a letter a friend wrote that she doesn't trust when people say they have no regrets. I thought of my own regrets. I thought of what the cost was for each. I thought about the lessons learned. I tired to figure if it balanced out.

I was frustrated with most everything that was happening in my life. I wondered about my choices; there were many, I second guessed all my forks in the road. I was where I chose to be, a secure job with benefits doing something, that at times, I enjoyed. But sometimes even a job you like is still a job. I wanted a change. I wanted to be somewhere else. The best I could do was get up and leave my cube. It was a time when I was still drawing with pencil, pen and ink. I could always make the excuse that I needed clean hands to do my job well. Clean hands were never truly achieved.

The men's room was by the elevator. She was waiting in her full length beaver fur when I walked by. I hadn't seen her for over three years. I thought of just walking by, to let the past remain undisturbed but I guess I wanted at least some sort of closure.

Closure didn't happen; renewed friendship did.


...

He wasn't bad guy much like a rattle snake isn't a bad pit viper.

...

I don't know how much of the bad below is the foundation for the good above.

It's a little like Jenga.