enter a messenger with two heads and a hand
Monday 9 March 2009 | I like a cookie
Okay. Calmer now. I retched but didn’t actually hurl, wept on the phone to Mandarin (who just got back from a week in the bosom of her family and should have by all rights been weeping all over me), and am philosophically eating leftover fried rice, leftover pizza, and a blueberry yogurt, and considering taking this moment to rip out all the wiring and finally, FINALLY, upgrade from Wordpress 2.0 to 2.7, which will not only automatically upgrade itself from henceforth but which also comes with a feature called Autosave. For all those times when you don’t write in a text editor, because you are not actually sitting down to write a blogpost (like now), but you are only issuing a friendly warning to your readers that you have been lycanthropic and have had a bad shoulder and are going on spring break, but somehow you wind up writing anyway, despite your intentions, wind up writing 20,000 tear-wrung words about art and passion and silence and pain and Africanized bees, and you look up five hours later and you haven’t eaten, and you haven’t saved the post because sometimes the very act of saving can cause the browser to eat the post, and then suddenly, while you’re sitting there thinking I should save this, between keystrokes, you’re not even touching the keyboard, Firefox has, sorry, crashed! And would you like to send an error report? and you sit there dumbly thinking, I know all the words are going to disappear into the flaming imploding sun someday anyway, but this moment has arrived sooner than I anticipated. I can no longer remember how this paragraph started and am shaking all over and can’t bother to go back and read the beginning. When you next see this blog it make look strange, even wrong and bad, because I have never upgraded manually before. I cannot help that and you, my dear, as in all things unreliable? You have been warned. It was such a nice post, too. Such a lovely long fat juicy post with so many interlocking layers and tidbits and cross-references to Paul Bowles. But I didn’t save it because I never intended to write it in the first place.
At the risk of sounding like Andy Rooney, this never fucking happened with my cast-iron gunmetal-gray Smith Corona manual. With the forest-green keys and the round ribbon I rewound with my inky fingers. Then again I seldom wrote 20,000 words worth mourning, in the days when I wrote on it.
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