Early this morning, while looking for a box in which to put some of Sasha's outgrown winter clothes, I looked at a number of unpacked boxes from when we moved into our house. No, it has not been five years yet. Just almost.
Anyway, I noted that some of these boxes contain items that might be outright garbage by now, plus reams of paper that could live more happily in a filing cabinet. During my afternoon doldrums, waiting for a phone call that I am sure will never come, I pulled down one of those boxes to sort through it. You know, like FlyLady says, 15 minutes at a time, right?
So. OK, here comes the interesting part. Among the first items out of this box I found was a rare and wondrous object.
It was... 5.25" floppy disks.
In an unopened set.
For Prodigy 3.1.1, copyright 1988-1992.
EBAY HERE I COME!
Ever have one of those weeks where you realize you've not eaten a vegetable in a week, where you can't manage to reliably exercise or take vitamins or freaking comb your hair, where you suddenly find out your daughter is more allergic to peanuts than she used to be and also to the cat and maybe sesame seeds, and she doesn't want to go to daycare anymore but her reasons are obvious lies, and the place you'd take her to instead is about 30% more expensive, and your free time is so overbooked with assorted obligations that you're locked into a kind of nihilistic inability to act, and your creative output has become tedious even to yourself, and you realize you haven't been talking to most of your friends lately, and you can't even muster righteous anger over the state of politics anymore, and you feel selfish for even considering any of this a problem when you are so clearly leading a charmed life in the first place, all topped off by a weird, inexplicable, downright Lovecraftian sense of doom regarding one particular project at work?
No? Well it blows. In case you were wondering.