Hello, my name is Elgan, and I have a computer addiction.
8:27 p.m.
�It is so difficult, harder than I thought, to stay away from the magic box in the attic. I daren�t even set foot on the stairs, lest I be lured by the siren call to my virtual shipwreck and annihilation on the shores of that glamorous wasteland. Even now I have a sensation in my chest and shoulders as though I am being physically pulled towards that goal. I must somehow learn to resist it and to limit my interaction with the digital universe so that it does not cut into my �real� life, robbing me of the minutes and hours necessary for completing the mundane tasks that keep me moving forward.�
Finally, nine and-a-half hours later, I have allowed myself the luxury of sitting down in front of said �magic box� to update my diary. Fighting the �siren call� all day I accomplished the following: two loads of laundry, washed, dried, folded and distributed; a loaf of bread (the breadmaker did all the work, but I had to program it); a long conversation with my mother wherein we discussed Canadian authors; and I am about halfway through my purple silk dress, having sewn the darts (always scary, that) and put in the zipper (perfectly, I might add). I also weeded a bit more in the front yard, read about preventing prostate cancer and dealing with menopause in my nutrition newsletter, made supper, read a short story, practised singing and interacted with members of my family. All the time I was itching to sit at the computer. I realize now that this is a real problem.
However, now that I have accomplished much in the way of household chores, I feel that I can reward myself with an evening of debauchery. After all, a normal person coming home from a hard day at work would put up his feet after supper and watch several hours of television. I think I can justify the next couple of hours in that way.
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