The UPC code reminds me of a parallel life in which I have just destroyed a power grid to assist my mutated cohorts attempt at revolution. My modem sits on Nerve, cylon visor glaring connection status at me. It is stolen. I never paid a cent for this modem, and I would have killed for it a decade ago. I never gave it back, and its serial number was lost in a flurry of knowledge-killing beauracracy.
Reality filtered through memory is odd enough.
Places and objects which definately do not exist in this world. If my memory of this past year were erased and the only record I had was this log, I'd have a pretty skewed image of the period. I would have trouble telling when I was being sarcastic. Well, not usually. There are times, though, when I dupe myself.