O.K. I have five numbers and five symbols. Not good enough. I throw in some letters. Weak, I am told. Hell, nobody could remember this combination for more than 5 minutes. By the time I get to strong, I had better have the damn thing recorded. Because a million monkeys plunking keys for a million years may never hit on that combination.
Then I have to tell the security sites behind the site what I have done. I don’t even know why the last one stopped working. I mean, I wrote the bastard down. Did I create a new one and leave no record of that effort? If so, I did it in the last day or two, a sobering thought. But I don’t think so.
I have decided the Prozac nation wants to make sure I am taking my Prozac like a good girl. Faceless foes inside the pharmaceutical industry are gaslighting me. But their latest clever attempt to drive me insane will fail. If teaching in a school taken over by the incredibly competent State of Illinois did not drive me insane, I am probably sane for life. Or I slipped over the edge and I’ll never know.
But, damn, I hate passwords. I also hate those patronizing programmers who think I need between eight and fourteen digits-symbols-numbers-letters-etc. to get my password right. I promise not to use my dog’s name, but can we please let me take a few chances in life? It’s my life.
Or it ought to be.
Zombie Phrase for the Day: Where did I put my purse? Aehhrrrrduh uhhhhhhhbuhdddbuhh buhrrzzzz?
