As I type this, Hotmail is down.
This is very annoying to me because some cool people I know only know me through my Hotmail account. So far as I know, they don’t know about my blog or my Gmail account and I am unaware of them having any blogs or other mail accounts.
So right now I am sitting here by myself and I am really by myself.
I hate being by myself.
I mean: I HATE it.
At times like this I sort of feel all my gadgets are laughing at me.
Around here somewhere I’ve got four fancy calculators. Two telescopes. A fancy keyboard. A guitar and amp and fancy metronome. A computer. A television and DVD player and some DVDs. Lots of sketch books and art materials. Quite a few books and magazines. A telephone. A camera. An umbrella. Some puppets.
But all I can think of is I can’t send a note or receive a note using my Hotmail account.
All the gadgets are laughing and saying, “Hey, come play with us!”
All I’m thinking is, “Oh, fuck off.”
A long time ago on a Sunday morning I walked to a convenience store to get a newspaper. As I walked past a nearby alley, I saw a young man and a young woman passed out, huddled together against a garage door.
At times like this I think back to those two unconscious together in an alley on a cold morning, probably drunk from partying the night before and I think, “Those lucky fucks, at least they weren’t alone.”
Even if I walk
to my kitchen and cook food
that just reminds me
the sink and the stove
and the refrigerator
are just more gadgets
that want me to play.
I’m just going to sit here
and miss everyone.
So right now I am sitting here by myself and I am really by myself.
I hate being by myself.
I mean: I HATE it.
At times like this I sort of feel all my gadgets are laughing at me.
Around here somewhere I’ve got four fancy calculators. Two telescopes. A fancy keyboard. A guitar and amp and fancy metronome. A computer. A television and DVD player and some DVDs. Lots of sketch books and art materials. Quite a few books and magazines. A telephone. A camera. An umbrella. Some puppets.
But all I can think of is I can’t send a note or receive a note using my Hotmail account.
All the gadgets are laughing and saying, “Hey, come play with us!”
All I’m thinking is, “Oh, fuck off.”
A long time ago on a Sunday morning I walked to a convenience store to get a newspaper. As I walked past a nearby alley, I saw a young man and a young woman passed out, huddled together against a garage door.
At times like this I think back to those two unconscious together in an alley on a cold morning, probably drunk from partying the night before and I think, “Those lucky fucks, at least they weren’t alone.”
Even if I walk
to my kitchen and cook food
that just reminds me
the sink and the stove
and the refrigerator
are just more gadgets
that want me to play.
I’m just going to sit here
and miss everyone.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I Can’t Sleep In My Kitchen
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