Penis Enlargement man (or woman) has chased me down at my new address. Breast Enhancement woman (or man) seems to have me confused with Dawn or Donna. I order two of each and have one sent to our tech-guys. Charge it to the business. If anybody asks, it wasn't me. 21st century maybe-not. OK. I'm cool. How did they find me anyway?
Pharmacological man (or woman) makes promises that are so good that even if they are half true, they are way too good to pass up. I order trial samples of everything they have and lay it off on my medical. Just for fun, my medical doesn't even cover the legitimate stuff.
Finance man (or woman) wants to help me have it all now. I try to coordinate the money delivery with my new penis and breasts, and the drug delivery. I figure it is going to be one hell of a road trip. Might make it all the way to Kansas City before my penis, my breasts and my head explode.
Pierre had to send a letter. I get it 5 days later. Seems my God-Child is in the hospital. His e-mail did not get through, he says. Not sure why.
I call Cheney. He says he got his copy OK. Must have gotten sidetracked when it was intercepted. My site only lets sleaze through.
I go back and change my password again, just for fun. I vent: Bullshit007 - one cap, more than seven characters, at least one number. Although my last password is branded on my brain, I have faith I will remember this one. It's personal now. Personal password. Personal passwords are easy to remember.
I try to print a copy of my thoughts, but I have to reinstall the printer drivers again. I keep thinking I remember how, but now I believe the machine changes its protocols just to give me a hard time. I can be programmed, but the system doesn't like me, so it fucks with my mind.
I tell the parallel port people that the system is fucking with me and they give me their "he"s crazy' look. I'm used to it. With adolescently undisguised disdain and a couple of purposefully deep sighs, these nerds revert to their most sacred belief that I am and have always been one of the idiots, they reluctantly try to guide me through the protocols again.
Unfortunately it doesn't work for them either. I want to laugh hysterically in their faces or maybe rip their hearts out of their chests, but I remember that road trip and keep my cool. I definitely don't want to end up in prison with an enlarged penis or enhanced breasts. The drugs might help, though.
My problem, now beyond the level of ordinary-person existence, is immediately forgotten. Their rolling chairs push my rolling chair out of the way. I am "not there." I could choreograph the entire conversation I've heard it so many times. They plumb and click rapidly to hide their embarrassment, discovering, I am sure, even more parallel universes to transport themselves within the logic of the system. They re-tame the system with dullness only marginally disguised by the mechanical names conjured from the air.
I want to send a quick note to the NSA thanking them for checking up on my friend Pierre. I know they probably flagged his message because of the "eval" in his job description, want to tell them he is one dangerous medieval librarian. But I have to sign on again. Bullship007. I send one off to the parallel port people too, thanking them for the 47 wonderful offers I get everyday.
Now I've got to go check the mail, see if any of my packages have arrived. Hope it's not late.
