This is what happens when I start reading science fiction novels that are as obsessed with the 
1980s as I am. I start longing for my old, outdated, retro technology in a major way. I guess 
that's part of the reason why I hang onto this account, because I know, eventually, I'm going to 
be struck with the desire to type things in a terminal again, to come back to the command line, 
to leave the world of automation and pictures and flash movies and auto-correct and come back to 
the cold, crisp, clean world of text-based Internet, where all of your mistakes are there for 
the world to see, where you have no choice but to move in a specific matter along the hallways 
and corridors of the words and phrases, where the meat and the substance has to hold up to the 
quality, the solid quality of things.

It also means that I'm hungry, that I'm waiting for something to happen, that I want to change 
my perspective, and that I'm ready to try something old that's new again.

How difficult is it, really, to be a woman in this age, to walk along the corridors of geekery 
with companions who claim such a monopoly on this space, especially when there's so much you 
don't really know -- when you're much more about culture and art and creation that about the 
ones and zeroes of the world. I wouldn't know how to program my way out of a paper bag, despite 
all the fooling around I did with BASIC as a kid. It never stuck, and so I push myself through 
each day, pretending to know more than I do, and hoping nobody notices. Does that make me a 
poseur? I suppose it's possible. It's funny that I was always so worried about people thinking I 
might be a poseur when I was in high school and that now, years later, I'm still struggling with 
the same worries. I suppose some things never really change.

I would love to get all of my stuff together in one place. I would love to finally collect my 
entire life in one area. I would love to, at some point, be able to say, yes -- this is me, this 
is everything I've ever been. My life has been so disparate and disjointed to be able to do that 
effectively, I suppose. When I keep reimagining, reconfiguring, and reinventing myself, what am 
I doing but trying to find some way to start again? I get started on one path, and I immediately 
have to turn somewhere else. I'm not convinced that I know what I'm doing, but on the other 
hand, I suppose nobody else ever really does, either. What I do know is that my stomach is 
growling, that I need more sleep, that I want to just curl up into the hearthfire of time and 
find a place to sleep for a while. It's been a very, very long last couple of weeks.

Don't come looking for me unless you know where to find me. Don't ask me questions you know I 
can't answer. Don't ask me to think too much about everything right now. It's tough times all 
over.