Some guy just called my work cell phone. I looked at the called ID
display and I did not recognize the number, so I figured it was a
wrong number but I picked it up anyway. You never know, it could be
for work. I answered formally, stating my name, etc. The guy on the
other line sounded a little confused, he had a southern accent. he
said: "Uh, I'm calling about a massage appointment." I told him he
had the wrong number. He politely apologized and hung up.
It just felt dirty.
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this is the subset of what goes on in my head that is fortunate enough to make the treacherous journey through the nerves in my neck, arms, and hands, down through my fingertips and onto the keyboard, through the wires, the computer, and the network, across the country on fiber optic lines, finding a permanent home in the electric memory of some server in san francisco.
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