Wednesday, April 13, 2005

I’m in the office right now, dear reader, and I’m basking in the warm afterglow of sniping an eBay auction. The prey in question was a piece of jewelry, a Mother’s Day gift for my grandmum. Should this somehow detract from the image I’ve cultivated, evening after verbose evening, let me put you at ease: I shall resume eating whole, raw babies immediately.

The other reason I’m here, besides comparison-shopping for the tender flesh of newborn children on Peapod.com, is you. Our discussions are enjoyable–at this point, they constitute a secret seventh food group unbidden by the government–and a sharp pang of guilt would overwhelm me, were I to miss a consecutive night of interacting with you. Also, Comcast screwed the pooch again at around 8:30 PM. Hard. Can’t stop them, though PETA will try.

There is a technological Shangri-la nestled in my mind, dear reader, and this shining metropolis boasts two inconceivable amenities. First, the Internet works when you need it, not whenever it goddamn pleases. Second, a cellphone embraces its modern status as indispensable and functions, if you can believe the rumors, without a cord. I’m grateful for having this mythical city beaten out of me.

We could’ve had a conversation earlier yesterday, that much is my fault, and in this case any bitchfits would rightfully target me and me alone. All mea culpa aside, however, would it be possible to have my connection work at a time of my choosing, mayhap when I’m not busy? This is what I wanted to ask Comcast when I jabbed their number into my cellphone.

Too bad my phone died right before the Combot could describe, in so many cushy words, my lack of Internet. For the past month or so, the lithium battery has rendered my cell all but useless, transforming it into a rather metrosexual castanet. This is why I continue to carry it with me, understand. Because I crave rhythm. It also grants me 10-minute conversations, after which it must be promptly given a nap to recharge. Yes, it goes from three bars to no bars on its own volition.

That’s enough housekeeping. Tomorrow, assuming we have a means to talk, we’ll probe the delicate subject of food mascots. So, you know, brainstorm or something. Toucan Sam and Tony the Tiger are part of the old guard. I think it’s time for the new.