Yesterday I spent the day emptying a storage shed and going through some old boxes. Oh the things I found... Old pictures from when I was a kid, a set of SCSI drives, old books, old clothes, pictures of airplanes and study notes from my days of flying... and old memories...
...some of which I ran through the shredder. There was no feeling of catharsis as I had hoped. The action was purely mechanical. Maybe memories can't be shredded as easily as paper can be eaten by hardened steel teeth.
Anyway, one of the things I found was a notebook I started in 2006, before I started riding and before my divorce. My goal was just to write one page per day (which only lasted a few days). Some was fact, some was fiction, some was just babble. For your entertainment I present you, kind reader, with this short set of writings. You can decide if it is fiction or real. Names and places have been changed to protect the innocent and stupid and mentally ill. ;-)
I don't remember why I stopped. Perhaps I will start it again.
Here is day one -
April 25, 2006
Everyone makes mistakes. See, I can't even write correctly! I am smoking again. I hate that. I am at work's parking lot.
Brian stayed home sick again. Betty yelled last night. I had a nice chat with Ms. V. in the internet last night. Too bad she lives in Austria. I would like to meet her.
Why does my hand hurt when I write like this? Why do people buy big, inefficient vehicles and then complain about gas prices?
A page really seems long sometimes. This morning is nice out for a change.
Betty is driving me crazy, I think. Slipping. Do relationships make people feel like this? I don't know. Others say 'no,' but we are all individuals and different.
My hand hurts.
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