I just wrote a blog entry and, with no idea how, lost it all.
I wish I had Don’s eidetic memory so I could replicate every word, the way he once did with seven pages of a typed essay. He got it back, word for word (or close enough that it looked like word for word to him, and he ought to have known).
I am superstitious enough to wonder where my entry went. I saw it, hit copy, and pasted what turned out to be one short sentence from something I had copied and pasted earlier today.
I then went ahead and tinkered so much that if the entry had once been retrievable, it no longer was.
As I said, I have no idea what I did wrong. But I do wonder if this is a sign not to post the entry I had typed up...which doesn’t make sense since I have addressed this issue before (and in fact, made vague reference to it earlier today on an online site, which was what prompted the retelling).
Rather than waste your time, and mine, I am therefore going to try and semi-replicate, this time in one as brief as I can make it sentence, in case there is something in the anecdote that will have meaning for you.
Earlier today I commented on a site that made reference to a television producer/writer/comic who, vicariously or otherwise, once stole something of mine without asking, paying, or apparently thinking twice, given that he had heard this story second-hand from my best friend whose (romantic) partner was head writer and producer of this man’s show and who, as it turns out, was fed all kinds of comical tales that had been taken directly from people’s lives—people like me who thought that entertaining her friends with anecdotes from her neurotic past in the safety of their home/s would ensure privacy—stories that lo and behold turned up on his television show, which might have made my family and I proud had we at least been notified, but instead made Don angry enough to suggest lawsuit (which now makes me wonder about the statute of limitations, especially since this extremely arrogant and very rich man and his wife have been taken to court by at least one other woman on charges of plagiarism), and which I generally manage to half-smile about until I see him or hear reference of him or am told how funny he is (he is?) when the rabies story, while practically identical in the hands (and mouth) of his female lead, undoubtedly leapt from my history to their ears to her pen to his pocketbook—how did I know that a cat scratch couldn’t give me rabies? (although I am secretly gleeful that my story predates the inception of their program by years, as my medical files can attest) (I had to ask my doctor; I had to know) and my other, better, friends, who kept my worries and jokes about my worries to themselves or within the confines of their family encampment, which leads me back to my mother’s favourite aphorism, consider the source, which he ought to have done, frankly, and screw the framed ‘rare’ autographed photo, which I packed away today because I can’t stand the sight of him, which was brought home last week when I saw him co-hosting a talk show, his nasal, over-stressed vowels hammering my eardrums, leaving me wondering how it is possible that anyone can stand a man who feels this degree of entitlement and who, or so it seems to me, appears more lost than found.
