fine whine

As I'm spending time unpacking, I'm coming across a lot of artifacts of my life. At least three of these boxes have been taped up from previous moves and stored or moved without even being opened in years. Crates and "appropriated" U.S. mail bins filled with random bits of electronics, computer hardware and playing cards are strewn around the bedroom that I've claimed as my computer room. Oddly enough there are only two computers in there, so far, my Mac and my oldest laptop, the Compaq Contura Aero/33 with all of its sixteen color Windows 3.11 goodness. My main box, the Frankenstein-ian Athlon beast is still hooked up in the apartment, and everything else is in my storage area (probably one or two more pentium IIish computers, not sure at the moment).

Anyway, scattered amongst the hard drives and mismatched winter gloves and empty DVD cases I found a notebook in which I occasionally wrote in high school, particularly at the end. Apart from having long since forgotten faces to go with the names mentioned, I noticed that my writing style hasn't really changed much since then. Once I type the four or five diary-esque documents, you'll be able to decide for yourself, but to me it seems like I've made little progress since then.

For that matter, I think my handwriting's getting worse.