So I spent a couple hundred dollars of my hard earned money from being promoted at work, and I bought myself a laptop. Now, keep in mind that the spec sheet is nothing spectacular, but for $170, I’m not complaining in the least, especially since this laptop is infinitely more functional than the last one I had (though it isn’t too hard to be infinitely more functional than a non-functioning product).
It’s an IBM (pre-Lenovo) Thinkpad T43 that I’ve lovingly named Cryometer, given the fact that it runs a lot colder than my old notebook. Packing a Pentium M 1.7GHz processor, 1GB of DDR1, and an Intel GMA 915/945, she seems lackadaisical on the surface, but she’s got some hidden talents I’m positively in love with:
- Fingerprint security with an onboard encryption chip
- A light in the lid to work in the dark
- Matte screen @ 1024x768 (personally, my favorite portable resolution)
- 10/100/1000 Onboard NIC
- A/B/G Wireless
- TPM hard drive encryption
- Active hard drive shock protection with a built in gyroscope to detect shocks, falls, spills, etc. and shut the HDD off accordingly
- Came with the docking station
All in all, for the price, not a bad deal.
Also, for those of you curious? I wrote this post on the way to work while riding on the Sound Transit 545 to Redmond. :3
So apparently I got baked last night and posted some shit that I thought about while I was on mushrooms.
BETTER LIVING THROUGH CHEMISTRY :D
I exist as an echo, a stuttering, shimmering thinny in a world filled with paper cutouts and layers upon layers of images overlapped atop one another, with an oddness of depth otherwise imperceptible by a human eye.
My wings are like cyan shadows gliding over the shifting sands of time.
I am simply an entity of an intangible reality, the wavering pulse of a fading sound against the static cacophony of a million idiotic voices struggling to survive in this cosmic fugue.
Let me show you how to see color.
And when I do, you will understand the crushing inevitability of my existence. :3
Today, as I was riding home to my temporary living quarters in Eastgate on the KC Metro Transit 271, I saw one of the most hauntingly beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my life.
It was a woman. An african american woman, to be specific, used up and broken, like a coked-out whore on the road to recovery. In her left hand, she clutched two grocery bags, one filled with Hostess donettes; the other hand held tight to a dog’s leash and a suitcase, a standard, black Samsonite number, road weary and worn.
The dog looked at me several times with the same sad look I’ve seen in the mirror on my own face: “Kill me, for I am weary, and need to rest.” She looked at me with a quiet disregard, as if she was staring simultaneously through and at me. She closed her eyes and sat, still as a leaf on a calm pond, as the rickety suspension of the Gillig bus bounced the five passengers (and her dog) around like the balls in a child’s toy lawnmower.
She stared alternately at me and a woman who spat incessantly on her cellphone about fingernail polish and acetone removal agents.
The sight of this black woman moved me nearly to tears as my mind spiraled out of control with thought. What was she doing? Why did she appear so broken? Where was she headed? Will I ever see her and that magical, equally broken dog of hers again?
Some questions are best left unanswered.
Goodbye, my almost lover.
And go fuck yourself.
START
PROBLEM: Consumer indicates that there is a problem with their mental state. Consumer is unable to think clearly about his life, his morals, his options, his future, his past, and his choices. Consumer complains of hypothetical questions running out of control and only providing further hypothetical questions.
RECOMMENDED SOLUTION: Through troubleshooting, it was determined that the consumer should have yet another beer.
TESTING SOLUTION: Consumer was administered one (1) 12 ounce can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
RESOLUTION: Have another beer and make all the problem thinking go away.
CONCLUSION: Beer fixes everything.
STOP
FSHFDJGDSFD
FUCKIN’ RIGHT.
(Source: and-then-eve)
Perfidia.
So now my room, and most of my bed, smells like him. Sweat from a hard day’s labor mixed with the sickly bitter smell of semen mingling with the sharp tang of citrus fruits. I almost can’t be in here because of how much the scent makes me long for the lie that was.
His words hang in the air above the pillows he marked almost every other night with his head, the scent of Aussie shampoo and conditioner still clinging to them like the remnants of some forgotten building fire lingers on fabrics of clothes in the closet of the room adjacent, telling me tales of mistakes he’d made involving the other man in his life and how he was resolute in his convictions to leave him.
“You were never my silver medal. The other was simply fool’s gold.”
“My only regret is making the wrong decision in the first place.”
“We fit together like puzzle pieces.”
These words are the ones that ring in my head like call center background noise. Echoes of sentiments that turned out to be false. I tried to forget them and I’ve found that I can’t move on, much in the same way that I was once unable to forget the man who lied to me so many years ago.
Will I be able to ever trust that he’ll be genuine? Will I ever be able to forgive this perfidious display of uncertainty and doubt? Who the fuck knows. I want to, but…it feels like Matthew all over again, and it hurts so fucking bad.
I want to hate him, to shove him out of my life, to never speak to him again, and yet, every time I contemplate these thoughts, I can’t think of what life would be like without him. And I hate myself every waking minute for ever thinking that it could end any other way than the way it did.
He tugged at my heartstrings with one hand and clutched a box knife in the other, and it’ll be a long time before I’m ever able to forgive him for that.
God damn you. God damn you for doing this to me. For showing me what love can be like, dangling it in front of me like a carrot in front of a horse, and then snatching it away every time I get close to it.
