29 November 1998
 
Brittle  
 
    I'm bored.  Holy Toledo.  I'm shamming about on the puter, a couple thousand things I could be doing, should be doing.  I should clean up the horrible mess my children made while I was checking my backlogged email this morning.  Toys and books are dumped all over the bedroom and clothes and pillows and things are everywhere.  Toys and clothes, mostly, clothes and toys.  I'm so tired of it.
    If I were a good little netizen, I'd be updating the Main Street Hobbies site, a site bought and paid for yet only half completed.  I'm tired, though, and I need a little contact.
    The email is dead, and I uninstalled ICQ.  I've become a non-entity in Active Worlds.  And I'm not really up to Acrophobia tonight.  I need contact, but not so much, you know what I mean?  I don't really feel like chattering about in a roomful of strangers.
    I need someone I can talk to.  After all this time, that I don't really have.  I can't really open up and say what ails me, seek a little comfort.  And something is wrong with me, and I'm not looking at it.  Or not seeing it.  Or something.  I feel really brittle.  Glittery, sunny on the outside, something not quite right on the inside.
    Well, I have a cat.  That's some comfort.
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