The other week you somehow stopped existing. I didn’t realize before how much you meant to me, thinking prior to that that I could take you or leave you like an uninterested old hand at an Amsterdam brothel — you were fine with my attention, or not, and could earn your pennies elsewhere should my eye wander to the other delicacies splayed about.
Well, Internet, Day One was freedom.
A freedom from your clutches ALWAYS asking me to update, post pictures, blogs, videos. It was January 2nd, and of course you were nagging at me (as per your usual) to upload you with pictures from New Year’s, comment on twitramblings of b-list celebrities, search out strange comic-obsessed recluse fanboys and befriend them. I read a book. It was a classic piece of literature, and I sneered when I looked into your nonexistent face, contempt dripping toward your weak pulse of a signal. I used a touch-tone phone and laughed several times about how calling people for free with video capabilities was for suckers.
Day Two was like white noise in a contemporary bachelor pad. The white noise of white furniture in ultramodern walls in a building that refuses entrance to children. I watched several hours of fine BBC programming using this old-fashioned Victrola-type device called a DVD player. (pron: DEE/vee/DEE)
It wasn’t until I bored of the Beeb on Day Three that I realized the cable was out, leaving me only with the PVR, as the cable and internet were somehow connected by telepathic means I couldn’t, nay, shouldn’t understand. OK. Fine. Luckily I had PVR’d a whole bunch of shows and movies, so it was satisfactory enough as I watched Goldie Hawn and Steve Martin play off each other in HOUSESITTER, Capra’s PLATINUM BLONDE and CASABLANCA.
Day Four. You looked at me and taunted, as I edited video. I balked at first, then was seduced by a paler version of you, linking to a sad little matchstick light of a wireless signal from somewhere deep in the concrete jungle. YouTube uploads were taking over an hour. Don’t even start me on iTunes radio. It was a joke. A sad, sad joke. I picked up a Skype call to stuttered sentence fragments and jumpy live feed that did NOT secure me in conversation with total babes.
Day Five I stopped drinking, and you mocked.
Day Six I started drinking again and re-watched the same DVD’s while awaiting a service call from your provider. (You say provider. I say pimp.)
Day Seven you were repaired first thing in the morning, my sweet sweet angel, and I saw how like a beast I had become without you. I plundered your beauty and devised works of genius we could live out together, beautiful dinners, building our future house, planning our destination wedding.
I spent today in the comfort of Internet luxury, banking, PayPalling, Surfing Dlisted and Twitter Twitter Twitter, Book Book Book. I used Grocery Gateway to pick up necessities that had dwindled in your absence like a recently divorced man’s clean laundry. Back on the A-list of your love, I pwomise never to leave you again, and to respect you for the high-class escort that only occasionally dabbles in porn that you are.
I missed you, baby baby sugar baby.