What was shocking: I did not expect to get a real person on the other end of the phone. When a real person answered, my objections were erased. I realized, after hanging up, that I prefer to complain to machines.
I thought about everything I was unhappy with, or had any complaint about. I had told a machine about it. I sought them, their mailboxes, their blind email lists, the message servers twirling out there in vast computing cloud spaces.
So now when I have any complaint, I write it on my shoe and walk on it until it is worn away. Or I take it down on a piece of paper, and burn it. Or I tape it to a dollar bill, and spend it. Or I sing a song, and make it rhyme.
I find my complaints are going away. The ones that remain, are just enough to keep me going. What a remarkable and strange place to be. And why the second surprise? Do we all live our lives assuming to know one's self, often to the point of contempt -- but quite frankly, we live with a stranger?
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