I Am Like A Star Shining Brightly
Hello, blog. Do you know what you do to me? Do you?
No. You cannot. You're just a bunch of <'s and /'s. There is no way for you to feel the things you do to me. The trauma you put me through. Though it would be an interesting exercise to strap you down, dismantle you like a hopeless game of Scrabble, shake all your codey letters up, and see what it spells. Perhaps hidden in the html lies a portent of my own doom.
Probably. Because this is what you do to me. I sit down to write at you (In you? Through you - yes, through you), because I have so many things to SAY, and there is so much I FEEL - and then I find myself absolutely overwhelmed, and I scrap the whole bit and go gad about youtube instead.
But there are many things to tell you about, like how my printer, it is gone. Out on vacation perhaps, tired of all the paper jammed up into its innards. I can't really blame it; wish I'd known about the jam sooner, perhaps we could have larked around Central America together. Ah, HP 5500. The thousands of dollars I spent on your ink. The pounds of dust I allowed to accumulate on your sleek shell, because no matter how diligently I went at it with a damp towel, it always came back again FIVE SECONDS LATER.
Or also, how about the fact that I own a PS3! Yes! It is amazing. It is sleek and shiny and powerful, and if it were a man, he would be just my type. The games! The graphics! The frequent and humiliating circumstances of my newb deaths! This, truly, is life.
Or. Well. I could tell you that I've been feeling a bit down lately, in a sort of rutless, vague - rut, I suppose, but now I am better. I shone! Only for a fraction of a millisecond, but I felt it. It tickled in my bones.
And that's all I have to say to you right now.
No. You cannot. You're just a bunch of <'s and /'s. There is no way for you to feel the things you do to me. The trauma you put me through. Though it would be an interesting exercise to strap you down, dismantle you like a hopeless game of Scrabble, shake all your codey letters up, and see what it spells. Perhaps hidden in the html lies a portent of my own doom.
Probably. Because this is what you do to me. I sit down to write at you (In you? Through you - yes, through you), because I have so many things to SAY, and there is so much I FEEL - and then I find myself absolutely overwhelmed, and I scrap the whole bit and go gad about youtube instead.
But there are many things to tell you about, like how my printer, it is gone. Out on vacation perhaps, tired of all the paper jammed up into its innards. I can't really blame it; wish I'd known about the jam sooner, perhaps we could have larked around Central America together. Ah, HP 5500. The thousands of dollars I spent on your ink. The pounds of dust I allowed to accumulate on your sleek shell, because no matter how diligently I went at it with a damp towel, it always came back again FIVE SECONDS LATER.
Or also, how about the fact that I own a PS3! Yes! It is amazing. It is sleek and shiny and powerful, and if it were a man, he would be just my type. The games! The graphics! The frequent and humiliating circumstances of my newb deaths! This, truly, is life.
Or. Well. I could tell you that I've been feeling a bit down lately, in a sort of rutless, vague - rut, I suppose, but now I am better. I shone! Only for a fraction of a millisecond, but I felt it. It tickled in my bones.
And that's all I have to say to you right now.
Labels: Daily
posted by juxtaposer at 5:39 PM
1 Comments:
your blog disapeared on one of my computers and not the other
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