The email inbox is full. It’s been full for days, weeks. It no longer belongs to me but rather to gremlins who red highlight posts to send me back to check and see if I need to do something. I do. I don’t want to. A big sigh escapes.
If, indeed, gremlins have taken over, perhaps I might name them: Sleepy, Grumpy, Stalled, and George, stubborn in his tracks. You’ll note I have not given the gremlins female names. Girls, no doubt, would have plowed in, made brief comments or funny emoji faces, sent them off, and deleted. But then, girls have memories. Elders do not. I am an elder. Bertha. There. Maybe I’ll name a gremlin Bertha.
I mean, how does this happen? I unsubscribe and unsubscribe and they keep on coming. No doubt somewhere, like in the cloud where all my interests and email and writing and wondering go, there’s this sub-head gremlin who pours over my writing, sees what I’m most interested in or NOT, and then, just to amuse this very dissatisfied gremlin, maybe George, he resubscribes me and then finds in the tendrils of electronic news, views, and highlights, corresponding threads and hooks me up.
This is not the sort of hook-up we talked about when young.
I don’t think the head gremlin does this. It’s the underlings. The head gremlin is called Mephistopheles, probably, and about the size of the King Gremlin in Lord of the Rings. That big fat guy with the crown on his head. He doesn’t care. He just sits and lets others feed him. Like this rant. They’ll probably feed him this rant.
And he’ll laugh and he’ll laugh. Ho ho ho ho.
And my inbox will get even fuller.