On May 27th, at 2:09 PM… Retrieving something from the top of my closet, I knocked my deodorant off the shelf which somehow managed to land on the switch of the power strip which hooks up our internet cable box and router (yes, our network is in my closet). Everything shut off for about 10 seconds, and now nothing works. I am without access to the digital realm until my ‘puter-dork brother comes home and figures it out (today? the end of the week? I have no idea). I’m taking this as an omen—it’s time to accomplish real, actual, important things. No more mindless entertainment and distraction. There’s letters to write, essays to revise, Instrumental to Change to fill in, out, and up, and by god!—a green world waiting just outside my window. I always thought the internet replaced my T.V., and it’s true, but stops short of reality—the internet became my T.V., and that’s frightening. I veg, glazed. Check sites compulsively. Read crap I don’t care about. Granted the web is a wonderful tool, but I have to learn to occasionally cut the Ethernet cord and engage in meaningful interaction with the physical (and internal) world: create, accomplish, act. Strive for productivity, not slip into passivity. Find motivation for getting out of bed not confined to putting on my Patriots again. Go to a park, endure a little sun, visit some friends, meet new people. I encourage every single one of you to use deodorant. Returning to the Present, and because of the past, I polished a personal essay for the perusal of those who just can’t get enough. I also got a $30 parking ticket ’cause some jackass had a quota to fill. If I were at fault, I’d admit I’s at fault, but I’m not, so I won’t, so I’ll have to stay pissed, unless I want to arrange a court appearance to be told to my face that I’m guilty while taking time off work that could be spent earning money to cover the fine I’ll have to pay, anyway < insert cuss word of your choice >. My mom just finished my book. She cried. A lot. I love my mom. (A lot).
Slinking in the summer daze, half asleep, half away. K. Those of you who have expressed interest in getting TTE then mysteriously drifted loose, you know who you are, and so do I, and I even know where some of you live. If money’s a problem, let it be known that I also accept donations in the form of lemons, bread, and “Oriental” Stir Fry Rice-A-Roni (damn Western “exotic” constructions—I can’t even eat without oppressive representation 
). In site news, I’ve fleshed out the seminal “comic relief” page, from here on to be known as the Ministry of Texts. I hope to soon start the grunt work of Instrumental to Change (gasp!) and maybe even add some creative non-fiction (whoa!). We’ll see…. And oh! How about those 200+ hits? Thanks all eight of you for signing my guestbook (hint hint).
I see the folks at Alxnet, the service that provides the site’s messageboard and guestbook, thought it’d be funny to make their once modest self-promotion plug a highly annoying floating banner. Damnation. This upsets me greatly. Maybe I’ll do something about it. Laterish. On a completely different note, I encourage readers to post their thoughts and impressions about The Teaching Emotion at Booksurge.com, the online store for my book. Click here to go to my info page then click on the words “write a review” by the little pencil. I’m also considering integrating a reader review/reflection/question section directly on this site—more on this when I have the time and, uh, more readers. Lastly, a little comic relief—yeah, I’ve a sick ‘n’ cynical sense of humor, but goodness, this you knew.
Hey. There’s not a whole lotta news with this update—I just wanted to say I included a “just the facts” section on the obtaining info page to make it less confusing. Yeah. I’m fully immersed in end-of-semester stress—I have a final on a Saturday afternoon (whhhhhhyyyyyy!!!!) and need to finish (…and start…) a project by Thursday on literacy and gender construction; I’m gonna mutilate Barbies with what else?—the English language. Should be messy good fun, if I can steal the time. Sign my guestbook, Bree. And you, too. And now, a moment of Zen.
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