Crash Caused by Bad Drivers or Faulty Logic?

"Breathe Damn You! Breathe!"

I think The Abyss is on or some appropriate clone. It's playing out, and my computer has stopped breathing. Yeah, it's the abyss alright. I trying to necessitate this lifeless paperweight with no luck. Reboot: That's what we do for the ones we love. My computer is always here for me. During the winters, she warms my toes, during the summer she blows cool exhaust in my face.

Right now there's no intake, no exhaust, just a bluescreen of death. I've been at this since 4am, I'm exhausted, but I'm not ready to call TOD yet.

"Somebody get me a Dominatrix! I need paddles and clamps stat!"

Oh…Okay...then not the dominatrix, get me the other paddles...

It started last night—or, technically stopped. I'd just finished an email to a friend, "I'm going to bed early tonight." I said. I lied. I sent the mail, then the computer screen turned blue and cold. It was jealous. My computer manipulated me for affection. It worked. Suddenly I really cared.

"NO!" I cried. I tried a reboot. The same blue screen appeared telling me about bad drivers and Windows locking up to protect itself.

The blue screen did offer some help. It said, "Try a reboot. If that doesn't fix your problem, contact your technical support department."

I am my technical support department…

"sucks to be you."

Backatcha, you blue bast--Sigh…

Sacrificing a chicken to the reboot gods, proved fruitless: my computer remained cold and distant. I'd spent hours trying to rebuild what was lost. It spent hours taunting me. Frustrated, I went to bed. I know. I know. All the books say, "Don't go to bed angry." but when she won't talk to me, what can I do? I've begged, I've apologized, I've even offered sex: nothing worked.

Ok, for the record, no sex was offered to my computer, but I'm working with a metaphor here. You do fine normally, why is it when I add sex to the metaphor you turn all literal on me and tune me out? Yeah, It's ok, I was married; I've been here too.

Alone, I can hardly sleep. What can I do? How can I bridge the electronic rift that's come between us? If she won't communicate her side of the problem, how can I resolve the problem? I'm a hero type-a resolver—I need to rescue the damsel and complete the quest.

This is where our hero despairs.

"You're only saying that because nobody has ever survived the Fire Swamps before."

-Princess Bride

The next morning I roll out of bed

"Ow!"

no better than the night before. Stumbling to the office, I stop just long enough to start the coffee pot, and check in on my computer. "how are you this morning. Did you get enough sleep? You're looking good." I butter her like a waffle.

She's not having it. "If the problem persists…"

I do get her on long enough to slip chocolates into the CD tray. She likes those. At least I think she does, they're gone when I open the tray. Maybe she's coming back around.

Unlike all my other relationships, my computer does offer an extra shot at regaining favor: Safe Mode. That's right. I can try talking with her without all those irritants loading up against me. I tried that last night, but nothing was safe then. Today is a new day, today she's willing to try a little soft persuasion.

"Safe" controls aren't GUI (pronounced "gooey" for those of you outside the technocrati. I know, there should be some analogy here, but I'm already sitting atop this driverless metaphor train, you'll have to find your own. Check the fridge.). Without GUI I don't get "point and curse" controls. I have to be patient. I have to spell everything out. Spelling and patience are not my strong suits. Still, she sees I'm trying and so she tries a bit herself.

Hours of talking through diagnostics reveals the problem: She's got a bad memory bit on her disk. I apologize, and show her how I remember things. There are tears, and she spits out the chocolates at some point, but we're finally communicating. We're working together to fix the problem.

We're approaching stable. We're not the same, both of us have changed through the process, but I think we'll be fine. If only my real world relationships were this successful. I so need to get me a girl robot with a safe mode! One who likes long walks and short paddles. Until then it's me and my temperamental computer. Oh, and now a jealous dog too. He wants to pee on the computer. If jerky-bits don't appease him I don't know what to do. He gets weird when I search for his "reboot" button.

I'm sorry Friends...

....Due to circomstances beyond my control, I won't be able to post today. I'll be back as soon as I can.

I'll Be Doing this How Long?

I won't write about it! You can't make me!

There. How's that for belligerent? It's been a long week. I don't know why, but I still haven't recovered from daylight savings. My mind is clearly in another time zone. So here I sit. Rob body, at the end of my resources at the end of my week and all I want to do is lie on the couch and watch TV. When was the last time I did that? I don't know. I do know I need to clean the house. Then there's this this pesky blog…

Thar she blows….

Ok, it's not that bad, although I'm sure there are some of you out there who wouldn't mind driving a harpoon into the great white beat. I just hope that the blog you're thinking of shanking not me.

Oh dear…

Sometimes I get ahead of myself. I jot down ideas so that when I am out of ideas, there's something to write about. Good thing too, cuz the little switch on the wall of my brain is off and nobody's home. The problem is I don't like the topic. I mean it's a good idea, it's just not something I want to write about.

What about Gumby? Would you like to know about him? Bet you didn't know that he once was a little green slab of clay. What about his pony pal Pokey?

Sigh…Fine, but don't say I didn't warn you.

"Sucky blog off starboard bow captain!"

"Bring us around, we'll catch her unawares!"

Nobody's more "unawares" of what's going on in my blog than me. I read an article earlier this week, it was about divorce. Yeah, I know, a divorce. I was as shocked as anybody. I really need to find a good drinking rum on a beach blog. That wasn't what I read though. I read one that said that just because the marriage is over doesn't mean the relationship is over.

Aw man! Where's my harpoon and storm slicks? There's Noreaster a brewiin'.

It went on to say that this "relationship" will continue until somebody dies. Do I get to choose who? What the hell is that? I'm gonna have schools of MyUnwife feeding off my brain for years to come? Now you see why I didn't want to write about it. I swear this is not what I meant by "till death do us part."

Yeah, the article was a sociological report, but focused on one woman. Since I don't have permission and am too lazy to cite, we'll call her Pokey. Pokey read the newspaper one day and found out her ex, Gumby, had died. Pokey felt confused because she didn’t know how to react. She needed to grieve, but Gumby had long since married a Blockhead. Gumby had a new family now. What would they think if Pokey just showed up? Gumby and Pokey hadn't spoken in years.

That didn't stop Pokey from keeping tabs on Gumby. She'd followed Gumby's exploits—both good and bad. She even copied his "further adventures" on DVD. The article explained that this was normal. Almost everybody keeps track of their ex. Whether it's the vindictive hoping for failure, or the forgiving hearts hoping for success. Nobody let's go completely. This does explain the extra click whenever I answer my telephone. Now I don't feel so bad about giving MyUnwife the GPS system for her birthday.

"Sonar says she's right underneath us captain! She'll capsize us for sure!"

I have mixed feelings about the Gumby/Pokey news. I mean on the one hand I'm relieved. Sometimes I feel guilty for still caring. I know it's not some obsessive "I can't let go" care, but shouldn't I be able to just write "The End" and close the book? It's comforting to know that what I feel with this hand is normal. Everybody is touched by their ex on some level.

ON the other hand, it means I'll be divorce blogging for quite some time. You guys are in for a boatload. That's right. Tell 'em Captain Rob says you're gonna need a bigger boat.

"Aww man! Fatty blog-blubber again?"

And what about Pokey? How did her story come out? Well, she went to the funeral. She didn't want to cause any discomfort, but she wanted his Blockhead wife to know she shared her pain. Pokey brought the widow a gardenia and sympathy card. Mrs. GreenSlabOfClay welcomed the former Mrs. GreenSlabOfClay with open arms. She even invited Pokey to sit with her during the memorial ceremony.

"It's okay," the Mrs. Explained, wrapping an arm around the sobbing Pokey, "I understand. Gumby was a good man, and if you have a heart, then Gumby's a part of you."

To be a Star You Must Act Like One.

So what's your story? We all have one. Our brush with greatness; the time we were so close to a star our flesh pealed with third degree joy. I've had several; I lived in LA. It's fine. Stars are just like everybody else, only better. You'll know one when you bump one. They'll tell you.

"You touched me. I felt my charisma ooze away. You know who I am right?"

BAM! Out comes the latest signed DVD and a cardboard standup. I'm impressed. I never ask where they keep these things. They're always so warm...

I think I'm the biggest star I know. No, really. I'm unknown sure, but I so have the personality for it. What do we need? Pride: check, vanity: check, aloofness: check, inappropriate behavior: check. I might as well be Tom Cruise!

Oh man, I am so getting hate mail for that one...

I dunno. I never really got into the whole star culture. Maybe that's why I woke up one day in the trunk of a car on the outskirts of Milwaukee. I think if you can plot a point in the universe farthest from all stars, it is Milwaukee. Nobody lives there except Joni and Chachi. Laverne and Shirley lived there once, but before you could say "hossinfefferincorperated" they took off to make their dreams come true. Where did they go? That's right: LA.

I've since moved back. Or at least as close as I can stand. If Hollywood is the face of glamour, you can find me in the armpit of your SoCal Google Map pin-up. I'm one of the fur tufts begging for attention. Say hi, I'm the musky follicle in the right field of anonymity.

That's what's great about being in a relationship. It's more than a hair brush with greatness. When you're with the right person, you are greatness. MyUnwife and I were like that for a while. My stupid jokes: funny. Her need to crush souls: endearing. Ok, she didn't have that need, it was more of a hobby really. Ok, not really at all. I'm just being bitter and funny. I'm sure somewhere she's sharpening a fillet knife laughing her ass off.

So we weren't Jerry Maguire "you complete me" great. We had our own greatness. It was more like a mutual "You acknowledge that I complete me. You can stay." Scenting the world with pride and vanity are survival tools for the lone wolf, but for the lap dog, they'll only get you a nose-full of newspaper. And in the end, I think that that's what we found: two dogs unwilling to sniff each others butt one last time.

We did have our brush with greatness though. Yeah, it was in Las Vegas. We spent our anniversary in an elevator with C.C. Deville, from Poison. Ok, not the whole anniversary. We did take up the whole elevator though. He was standing in the back corner arguing with some woman who leaned against the other corner. I'm guessing wife, but I don't know enough about his personal life to speculate. MyUnwife and I took the corners to the front.

I don't even really remember what they were arguing about; I was in my own world, MyUnwife in hers. All I remember is the couple looked road worn. They fought, but not in a to-prove-a-point way, it was more like some formality—like a routine. Sort of like 2 neighboring tribes that get up every morning, walk to the edge of the river that separates their villages, throw rocks at each other for 15 minutes, and then return home for a hunting-gathering funfest.

Don't look these tribes up. You won't find them. They don't come from Milwaukee, and they aren't famous. There's no anthropological precedence, just you and me, and we're regular people. Ok, you're regular, I'm still a smelly tuft sprouting from the pit of greatness.

I had bigger brushes with greatness when I was alone in LA. I think the one I remember most is the one I'm least proud of. I was working retail in the OC where all the extras hang out waiting for camera time. I managed an electronics department with TVs and video cameras.

Moths to flame, baby. Moths to flame…

There was this young part time girl (part time job, not part time girl) in the china department who'd come over and talk. She was an actress. I didn't recognize her, but that didn't make her a liar. Not in SoCal. Besides, it's Rob's world, all the rest of you might as well live in Wisconsin. This girl was from somewhere closer though. Probably a Shirley Temple dimple on the cheek. I don't remember her well, except she was cute and young. I didn't realize how young until much later. No! Nothing happened. I'm a self absorbed creep, not a guy who picks up on little girls.

I am the guy who says inappropriate things to little girls though. And we were only beating back borrowed time; my mouth was bound to say something really fun soon. It did. That happened one day when she wandered over to my department and started talking to one of my sales guys. She must have been on break, because she had one of those globe shaped lollipops in her cheek. I knew her manager, she'd never have allowed that. Then again, maybe that's why she was hanging out in my department. I let my guys talk to anyone while working the floor. I'm not sure what their conversation was about, but I knew it wasn't about me. That needed to change. So I did what I usually do: I said "look at me, I'm gonna say something incredibly stupid."

I don't remember what I said, but I do remember it had to do with the lollipop. Yeah, it was wrong. I didn't know what my lips had done until I looked at hers. The lollipop was gone; her lower jaw rested against her throat. Realizing what I'd said, I flipped to page 5 of Rob's Book of Common Apologies.

"I am so sorry…"

I've always remembered her because she's the girl who could have gotten me fired for being stupid and offensive—two of my more endearing traits. A few months ago I was having a self-analytical moments. It seems that divorce is full of those moments. I wondered what ever happened to the young actress. Had she gone on to greatness? And before you ready yourself for the Reese Witherspoon punchline, let me say this: That's not her. As best as I could tell she hadn't done anything recently. I did recognize her though, from work she'd done before I met her.

Her name was Maia Brewton. Go ahead Google Maia's star. Wait, before you do, let me swear she was much older than the first pictures you'll see, and no, she wasn't wearing the tell-tale Thor helmet. I'd have remembered that. (I tried to get MyUnwife to wear one of those once.) Yeah, that's right. The highlight of Rob's young life was harassing the little girl from Adventures in Babysitting. I am so cool. I told you I was a star.

Electronic media and you. The Divorce Super Spy.

"I'm not really the jealous type."

"Me neither. I believe if your heart is gone it's gone and all the jealousy in the world won't help."

"Exactly!"

"I think it's just better to trust."

"Me too!"

Ok, cuddly iceberg memory dead ahead! Turn! Turn! Turn..!

Sigh, yes. For everything there is a season. A time to love a time to trust. That time was MyUnwife and I 11 years ago. That ship sailed moons ago, but think I can still stand by the conversation. Sure, you can look at us like the Titanic, but I like to think I'm more the Nina—MyUnwife can be the Pinta. We didn't find the Indies, but we did sail off with some cool memorabilia and great things to do with turkey and corn other than creaming.

One thing I did learn: there's a huge difference between jealous and suspicious, but neither one leads to happiness.

I've told you about my crush. I'm not going to refresh that story. Nothing happened, and MyUnwife knows that nothing happened. What's more, I'll go so far as to say she knew nothing was happening at the time. She wasn't jealous, I've seen jealous before. I know what it looks like. It's a fuzzy Visine eyeball with lasers shooting out. That wasn't her, Not being jealous didn't stop her from being suspicious.

My cell rang, she'd glare. An IM conversation came up on my computer, She'd flinch. I probably didn't help. IM's were either my sister or my NoCal buddy. Rather than making sure she understood that, I'd just reply quietly, because everybody wants something. My sister wants to say hello. My buddy wants to keep his mind off his troubles. MyUnwife wants another reason to hate me. At least she did then. I don't know why, she already had plenty. There for a while I couldn't joke with her without receiving a snarl. And yet I thought she was funny.

"Wow, another beer? That's two this week. Are you sure you can handle it."

"It's the only way I can keep from bashing your head in."

"That's funny! Ha ha…funny right?"

"Grrrrr.."

"I'll be over here kissing the rattlesnake, where it's safe…"

The cell phone was something different. I'd get calls, but I never answered them. Nobody called me. The only calls that came in were debt collectors looking for "Bill," and some sailor looking for "Telemachus." That certainly wasn't me. The calls were never for me and I never answered. Why would I? My cell was an outie not an innie. So I adopted the "They'll leave a message" philosophy of phone service. It worked for me, not for her. She saw this as me hiding something. Some panting Circe or Rob groupie stalking from the closest cell tower.

In these modern times of electronic evidence, I wonder if she ever searched my computer. What did she find? I mean there was nothing there. She had open access to my computer, my email, and everything. I only changed my passwords once she asked for a divorce, and only then because I didn't want her to see some of the things my friends were writing. Bitter divorced friends make great coals for fire. Other than that, there was nothing on my computer except scraps of insanity: Partial stories, random stanzas, incomplete thoughts. These would all, of course, be code. She was suspicious.

Don't get me wrong. I had suspicions about her too. Her change was sudden and absolute. Where did it come from? Was there a guy? I doubted that. I just figured maybe some black pearl of crisis she decided to hold inside rather than open up and share.

Then one day, I heard the call. After she'd told me she was leaving, I logged onto her computer. I needed to get any files I'd left there from when we were a one computer family.

Sitting alone in the office I transferred treasures to CD.

"Ro-ob" the siren's voice called. It was a mysterious song from the cache of her computer.

"Yes."

"Since you're already here, wouldn't you like to have a look around?" the mer-file splashed playfully at me from a bit rock, hoping I'd byte.

"No. It's her computer. I've just got these pictures of the cats I need."

"C'mon, you know those aren't the only pictures she keeps here." She sang, urging me closer to the shore.

"Nope. Don't care. Not gonna do it. These Shamu pictures are mine though."

"Maybe you should look through your pictures before you download. Make sure there's nothing you want to leave," She cooed.

"Yeah, that's a good idea." No it wasn't. It was a bad idea and the mer-file knew it. She wanted me to see the memories. She wanted me to taste the salt, to feel the hurt and the wave slap of love lost.

Flipping her hair, she asked again, "how about now?"

She didn't need to ask. I was already swimming to shore as fast as my typing finger could drag me. I was a CSI: Wherever forensic computer geek, cutting and pasting, drawing image maps in the sky. Zooming and catching reflective glimpses of the woman who owned the computer. Tech sweat dripping from my brow, cool indie electronica played to the beat of my tapping fingers digging deeper and deeper. Somewhere here: Another guy, bitter friends screaming "Divorce!" Hidden assets. Show me your secrets, bitch! Hours of searches piled window upon window. There was something here. A signal, an answer, a sign. I crashed the computer on the rocks and fell to the floor gasping. There was nothing there, but I'd found my sign:

Abandon all hope all ye who enter here.

We'd both surrendered trust to the siren call of suspicion and were left with nothing more than brine and foam. Gasping, I replayed a conversation from long ago:

"I'm not really the jealous type."

"Me neither. I believe if your heart is gone it's gone and all the jealousy in the world won't help."

"Exactly!"

"I think it's just better to trust."

"Me too!"

Those poor kids. I'd tell them they're lying to themselves, but it won't do any good. The good news is now it's a new voyage. I can't speak for MyUnwife but I can say this, the very things I was most suspicious of before, I actually wish for her with all of my heart now. Another guy, friends who care enough to take care of her, wealth beyond her dreams. May they carry her ship to Valhalla's shores.

I hear another siren call right now. It tells me I'm got nothing to worry about. My belly is fat. My sails are full. There's a little chop, but my vessel is strong, and I've learned to trust my course. God will lead me to good places.

The More Things Change...

I am a child of the digital communication age. Here look, I've even got an Ethernet cable running to my bellybutton. A true innie. It tickles a little, but even SPAM is nourishing, and I'm always fed.

I wasn't always swinging from the modem lifeline. When I was married, MyUnwife was my connection to the real world. She cut the cord though, and I floated in space like a tethered astronaut. Call me Buzz. It just sounds cool.

Ok, don't call me Buzz, it'll only confuse me. With Screen names, real names, and logins, I'm having trouble remembering who I really am. Better just call me Sybil. That's what the call me at—nevermind.

See, but that proves I not only have personalities online, but I have friends online too. The one nice thing about computer friends is that I can work and chat without even swiveling my chair. Real world friends require that I go to real world environments. You know, restaurants, parks, Mom's basement—I'm sorry the last one should read "Baktar's Dungeon!" I think I've just lost my standing D&D invitation. Oh well, I'm too busy to attend that one too.

I start my day in front of a monitor, and I end it in the same place. I'm not making Myspace ready for babes, I'm working. When I'm not seeding the blogworld with fools gold, I'm researching songs for my day job. Do you realize I actually have to schedule in my Monthly walk?

My latest "crisis" is I need to fill my grill tank. I'm out of propane. I was supposed to do that last Friday, but it got bumped. I've been too busy to leave the house for 30 minutes. I'm penciling it in for tomorrow.

Here's the sad part. I have nightmares that somebody will show up at my door with a pillowcase and an armload of bungee cables. They'll tie me up at gunpoint, throw the case over my head and hold me for ransom until I go to Disneyland and submit to the fun mouse. Yet at the same time, I fantasize about the day that the same deviant will show up at my door, drag me out the garage and force me to clean it at gunpoint. What's up with that?

So I sit in my chair and multitask. I brush up my Bluetooth and IM skills while I work. Don't get me wrong, I'm really grateful for the friends I have. No matter what connection we have, they're always an electronic handshake away.

This leads me to my latest dilemma. Because I care about my friends, I always try to accommodate them. I appreciate them, and it's good to have them in my little world. They've replaced MyUnwife as my lifeline, so I try to treat them appropriately.

"Hi Rob."

It's a woman from my writers' group. She calls me to pitch ideas or just chat. This is our social interaction. We don't hang out or anything. Once again, if it can't be done on a headset, I'm too busy. I think in her case that's as much an excuse as anything else. Talking on the phone is fine but we're socially incompatible. I think a play date for us would be like a trip to the Thunderdome

"Two men enter, one man leaves."

Well except she's more woman than man, and I'm really more of a man/boy than anything at all, but you get the idea. "Two Transgender entities" didn't match the mood.

Here's the thing, I have to be real careful with my real world relationships. MyUnwife and I didn't pan out, and I'm kind of in "Twice shy" mode. I think dealing with this woman outside of social groups and phone calls would be bad. Lamb doesn't invite wolf over for tea unless she's serving mutton, no matter how sheepish he looks in his wool clothing. And I'm not even sure which one of is lamb or wolf. I'm not sure that matters.

"Are you there."

Man! I hate internal dialogue while I'm on the phone, "Hey."

"Remember that Bible study I told you about?"

Bible study? Trick question? No, she did mention one. She was looking for it…never found it…until now? I'm working. I'm distracted. Right now there's a guy talking in French in my other ear. I don't speak French. They do in Quebec, and that's where the radio station I'm working right now is from. When in Canada, do as the Canooks do. I would, but I still don't speak French. "Oui, les études de la Bible."

"Que?" She says.

"Uh…how you say…Where is the bathroom?" Say I. I say it but don't mean it. I don't have time for that.

She says something else in French. I'm guessing it's "Where's the Bathroom," but it could as easily be "Poke me in the Eye with that toothpick, please."

"Thank you."

"So I found That Bible study I was talking about, want to hear it?"

Not at the moment. Don't get me wrong. One of my sanctioned scheduled outings is a Bible study. I think they're a good thing. But not an on the phone thing. And especially not while Quebecois Radio Man tells me what he does to a lingerie model.

"Oui! Oui!"

"Oui" I say.

"Ok, grab your Bible."

Hold it right there missy! "Uhm, I'm working. I can't really do that right now."

Radio man is quiet. So is my earpiece. Then a voice comes in from out of the bluetooth. It's far less friendly than the previous voice, "Oh, then you're far too busy. Forget the whole thing. I mean it. Everything."

Click.

Uh, ok…I've had dates end like this. Come to think about it, I've had a marriage end this way too. A phone call is nothing. Then again, I have to wonder is that part of the problem? Am I too busy in Rob's world to work with others?

It's probably something I should consider, but right now I've got to work.

Daylight Savings with Accrued Interest.

I hate Daylight savings! Did you get that? Maybe I should repeat it in italics for emphasis: I hate daylight saving!

Need bold? No? I do colors...Ok fine, maybe I'll elaborate rather than dwell for once. Here's the problem: I'm usually pretty scattered (yeah, thanks for feigning surprise. You are by far my favorite reader.), but that sleep shift thing is just turning my brain to buckshot: all the velocity but no direction. That illustration not working for you? What about this:

Scene opens. Camera fades in, focuses on tan and white hamster running in a wheel. Hamster eyes to the prize, legs a flurry of industry as the wheel spins faster and faster. There's a clack, clack, clack, like cards against bicycle spokes.

Voice over: This is Rob's brain.

A loud chuck-chuck is heard

Voice Over: This is Rob's Brain on Daylight Savings Time.

The hamster offers a worried look to the noise and runs a little faster. A motor noise responds. There's a loud whine and FWOOP! The hamster is sucked into the great vacuum of life. The empty wheel slows it's spin and the camera fades out.

Clack, clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

See It's bad! Hang on, I have to go save the hamster from the dust bunnies.

It's the sleep schedule thing. I had 2 blog ideas yesterday, I jotted them on post-it's and hung them from my monitor, twinkling thoughts of brilliance. Right now they might as well be twinkling in Ultra Violet because I don't see them. The scrawl is nothing more than pictograms from ancient civilizations.

"What does it mean Dr. Beevis?"

"I don't know, but the monkey peeing on The DaVinci Code is funny. He-he, he-he, he..."

I can't use those ideas until I find my inner hamster. Even as I spin out today's effort, it's growing ever apparent I can't focus enough to draw anything from this daylight thesis, not even a blissful conclusion. It's kind of like my divorce ramblings: the whole thing is academic.

What's the practical purpose? Daylight savings, divorce, they happen. I'm moving on. Sure, MyUnwife gets to spring forward while I fall back, but I think that's a plan of our own making. I'm not a doctor, and nor do I play one on TV, but I can tell you that we all have a tendency to spin our wheels on the things we can do the least about. Sometime we need outside forces to suck-start our lives.

"He-he, he-he, he, he said suck-start."

"Shut-up Beevis."

Maybe it's time to find ways to add more daylight to my days. My routine is good, but maybe I need something to turn the wheel into a Habitrail. I always wanted one of those as a kid. I never had a hamster, but I knew if I could put the Habitrail together I'd be set.

Build it, and they will come...

Maybe if I build a life Functional/Focused Rob will appear. For now I live post-it to post-it fending off the vacuum.