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Stealing Pies From My Porch
As I sat on that porch, the kind of porch with lattice webbing stretching like a yawn from it's deepest angles; upon which a dizzying Boston Fern hung like a basket full of questions, I strained to see the display on my smartphone. There was no reason I needed to see it, I was only shuffling through the app drawer like one might do with a deck of cards - watching their symbolism glide across a midnight backdrop, almost as if the clue to a greater answer would spring forth and startle me into a reality I hadn't know since the Blackburry Curve. A reality where I didn't own such a device, or rather, it didn't own me. A reality where I cared to argue the intolerable lack of proportioning statements made by Faulkner in the "Sound And The Fury," more than I did the bloated opinion someone had crafted about a telephone. Maybe the opinion was my own.
I chose to open an application entitled "MP3 Tagged," and then proceeded to rename some of the titles of songs on my device to other things. Tool's "Disposition" became "Flangy Dreamsicle Cave Barron Von Wilderness," and John Coltrane's "Giant Steps," became "How To Craft #Winning". I had gone full potato. What was happening to my brain? Instead of reading about the chemical engagements of saltatory conduction - and getting the ligand gated operations down pat, I had spent all evening f#@!ing around on ADB, flashing ROMs and playing on an ICS Virtualbox kludge that was actually pretty fun. What a s#!t show.
She sat her steaming Oolong on the table and began to page through the album of photos he had taken during his summer in Wyoming, where he "practiced Cowboy' as well as being thoroughly whipped by the physical and psychological tribulations of that profession's dusty cowhide gloved sunset. He had come back a née and rejuvenated man, she thought whimsically, but now; her mind trailed off, the same as he had done those summers ago. She suddenly wished she had something stronger than tea to drink. She went over to the armoir and pushing aside a picture of them in Florinapolis reached into a drawer for a bottle of Tullamore Dew.
It had started to rain and still I sat there doing nothing. Thumbing through inconsequential trivia that I collected on my "SkyDrive," while simultaneously battling some guy on the Internet about how he was an Apple shill, should go to hell and that Android was for "real work". Dongle Pouchington, my old Bloodhound passed gas and in the distance I heard American Freedom burst through the valley in the form of an obnoxious truck.
"Born In The USA" became "Poker Face," and I needed a drink.
Looking at him from across the room, she remembered the first time she had seen him walk the dinosaur. They bought the Nexus 4.
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