I just got a laptop last month as some of y’all know which means I’m not typing all hunched over from my “ugly room.”  My PC is still there, in the space off the kitchen where the washer and dryer hold hands tightly while the spiders in the Ikea shelving make a 5 story web condo. Check out the view, Charlotte: Soup cans and vacuum bags. We have a third story shelf with Mac n Cheese, if you want a unit, they’re going fast. Mice are taking over! The entire second floor with the Kikkomen noodles are sold old but there’s space behind the George Foreman grill on the bottom shelf, so hurry!

With the AirMac, I can blog anywhere and every where. In a box.  With Green Eggs and Ham.  Like a child, I am in awe and wonder what I find each day on the tip of my fingers. I know it’s nothing new to you pervs, and I, too, have I’ve been fingering my phone for years but now it’s all blown up ALL THE TIME.

Which is awesome but!  A chained up PC computer in an ugly room has a purpose.  A lap top Air Mac is a whore with a whole other agenda.  In one single month I have logged on so many miles on random tangent fuckery that I am afraid that my brain has been compromised by too much imagery of LOL Cats, porn, funnies, “Before and After” pictures of the Khardashians, et cetera, that my own voice has been compromised.

And not that my voice is a big bag of chips, but it is my little squeak and it came from the ugly room that is my private sanctuary.  Condensed and restrained, I could collect my thoughts and then spew like the food processor on the fifth shelf.  That stool I hunched over was one from my childhood that my dad reupholstered in vinyl snakeskin with which he sent me off to university.  Sometimes people come over to my house and I have to show them something on the computer and when they sit on the stool, inevitably they will say:  “What the fuck? How do you fucking sit on this fucking thing and fucking type?”

I say, watch your expletives.

This was my spot.  I could tap on my kepyboard while I did laundry and gaze out the window and watch the clouds and the birds. And sometimes see the neighbour walk his dog in the park and think to myself:  “What in the name of God’s jizz nuggets are you doing with that woman you’re married to…hello, is it me you’re looking for?” And then go on YouTube and cry a little bit.

Now I can tap shit out anywhere. At Starbucks. Your mother’s house. Wherever WiFi bleeds out a vein, I got access.

I am not so sure how to harness this new-found energy.

I am just saying so you know and that you stay with me because I think it’s going to be a fun ride. I hope! Because otherwise I have nothing, and with that I leave you with this: