My poor, aching wrists

You're welcome, Northland College. My sacrifice is your gain. While I've been sitting staring at the computer screen almost unblinkingly for the last two days, moving information from a gigantic PDF into a somewhat more useable, certainly more linked up Web directory, my wrists have slowly deteriorated back into carpal tunnel land as my eyes have been busy gathering an unhealthy dose of projected radiation while fighting between screen lighting and glare from the windows in my lovely office. How's that for a big, pissed off sentence? In an ethical world, would I have to sacrifice my physical (yes, and mental, too) health to make a buck to pay bills so I can afford to eat enough food to sustain me while I pump gas into my mobile atmospheric heater that takes me back to my office so I can make another buck? Stupid vicious cycles. I suppose that's what I get, squandering my undergraduate education on something that makes me happy (or frustrated, or challenged, but definitely not bored) instead of something that makes me money. I'm trying to find balance (which, had I found it by about 8 p.m. Monday evening, would have helped me avoid getting kicked in the head in taijutsu class) in the world. I know that if I could choose to do anything, I'd write fiction. And I can choose to do anything. But I don't write fiction. It's scary as all get-out to follow my dreams. One of the last times I did that, I wound up paying $25.32 for a stainless steel bolt. Of course, another time I followed a dream, I wound up with a wife. So I guess I'm batting .500. But still, scary, paranoid, pessimistic, procrastination, and dishes all come home to roost whenever I think about it. I've tried telling myself that if I write two pages a day, that's a rough draft in six months. It sounds really good. Pretty easy, though with just enough commitment involved to keep out most of the riff-raff. Oh wait. That's me. Dang it. So I try to get myself psyched up by reading some science fiction. That's good. I like that, too. So much, in fact, that I go get another book after the first one, then surf to some authors' sites, then take a look at some organizations composed mostly of people like me (since I could be the poster child, shouldn't I get a free membership?) who would love to have written a great book. Or even a mediocre book, for that matter. Notice I'm still not writing. Just thought I'd point that out. Call me Captain Obvious. Or go to the Website. I dare you. (Parental warning: the Captain Obvious website [notice the lack of link] is not for young people, or old people, or people who are easily offended, or people who can read, and certainly not for the illiterate. In fact, I recomend you stay away, but since I can't reach through the Internet to slap your mouse hand if you try to Google it, you'll just have to be responsible for your clicks. And if you go to Captain Obvious, don't come back cryin' to me. I'll just point and laugh like Nelson. Finally, don't even think I have anything to do with the Captain Obvious Website. I don't. So there.) So here I am. Writing. But not science fiction. That's OK. I'm going to let my inner New-Age liberal wiener come out and frolic in the dandelions for a moment and give the rest of me a hug, a pat on the back, and tell the rest of me that it's OK; at least I'm thinking about writing scifi and am actually writing, so that's more than half the whole ball of wax, there. My inner New-Age liberal wiener better be careful my inner right-wing, gun-toting nutjob doesn't hear about this.