THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
So we're at the Apple Store, right. And even though it's in Orange County and full of shiny white things, there aren't four hundred mildly drunk youth checking their myspaces and raging over how their pocket size digitals can't quite take the right angled photoshop that they want, and all of the workers aren't twenty three and tattooed and adorable.
And the lady there has finger in a lightsocket hair and glasses about three inches thick and some sort of Stroke/Quasimodo thing going on where one eye is almost totally closed.
And as soon as I tell her what I need, she takes the battery from my hand and puts on this weird small chilren/furry pet voice and says "Awwww. You're computer needs a new baaattterrrryyy? A new batterrryy for your laaaptop?!"
And, despite previous harrowing Apple Store experiences, we make it back to the car okay (I'm crying anyway) so we can listen to Thom Yorke and drink carbonated Jello and try to stalk The Black Pearl as it docks into our harbor.
And I'm madly in love with a man that doesn't actually exist and I might drop out of highschool or take the real Lunatic slash Mormon route and adopt my real role as a social recluse by homeschooling myself. And I've started being able to read books again and don't break electronics anymore and the cats all love me suddenly.
And, still, the entire world persists in its effort to establish true, undeterred entropy.
And I'm just watching.