Learning from the past to improve the future

I was recently included in a couple of tweets where people were discussing their path to getting into gamification. I was one of the people mentioned as part of their learning journey. I have never…

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Day 8

Tuesday, March 24, 2k20
My 450 Sq. Ft. Railroad Apartment

Dear Diary,

Manic Monday bled into…Manic Tuesday! I tossed and turned all of Monday night, having stress dreams that included but were not limited to: realizing slowly and excruciatingly that I had “forgotten” to break up with every serious boyfriend I’ve had since high school, being abandoned by my current partner while he chose to do cocktails of hard drugs, having to revive a role I played in a college musical and realizing that I couldn’t remember any of the song lyrics, choreography, or how to properly fasten a wig on my head to sustain doing cartwheels downstage. I asked my boyfriend sometime after midnight if he was awake upon noticing the light of his phone (everyone’s permanent appendage during these times, like an eleventh rectangular finger or a glowing third hand that listens in on your conversations and tracks your location and makes you want to buy things you do not need like toe separation devices).

“…Yes,” he said, sensing that this was a loaded question and that my response may very well require some amount of emotional labor that should really be punishable by law in the middle of a night on a Monday.

“I wish I had a Furby that had a mouth like a Pez dispenser. Only from its tiny beak would pop sleeping pills instead of Pez,” I mused. The conversation stopped there.

I used these visions of narcotic-filled Furbies the same way I used panic cleaning my kitchen this morning and the same way I used watching all of TIGER KING on Netflix in one sort of Mountain Dew-soaked fever dreamish sitting: to cope.

In the moments I am not busy with Whatever Work is Right in Front of Me, I am coping. Sometimes I am great at coping, sometimes I am too angry or sad to even consider coping. Sometimes coping feels hopelessly necessary, and sometimes coping feels helplessly indulgent. Even when I am sleeping, I am clenching my hands into primitive little paws and waking up to half-moons carved into the curve of my palm’s lifeline. When your literal lifeline is threatened, what else is one to do? I’ll keep coping and keep you updated…

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