exposed cerebral cortex of a proletariat bike slut
bring me your bolshevik sex, not this emasculated soviet
packing.
my arch nemesis.
cookie monster guy that first eats up all my open tabs for awhile, and then turns my computer into an unmitigated, colossal fuckface of a clusterfuck: the abhorrence of my existence.
well, now that my (brother’s/dad’s) computer has crashed, I guess that’s one less thing to pack for NYC.
I was quiescently listening to Miles Davis playing on my roommates computer, sipping white zin, and staring at the pile of things I have ready for my Virgin Atlantic flight.
The list includes:
Valery Plame Wilson’s book.
My new hair staightener, new mascara, new eyeliner.
My Canon.
.
…
bored with the intricacies of arranging things, I started reading about reproductive rights and watching my kitten voraciously chomp down the remainder of my salmon. at which point my computer crashed. fuck.
