12 Of 48. Thick, Greasy Smoke. Composure.

Of the past 48 hours, I've spent 12 handing out laptops in assorted CLICC labs on campus. And you know what I've realized? I fucking hate strangers. Don't get me wrong, mass murder is awful and wrong. But I'd really like to throw every single user into a pile and light them on fire.

The firelight would cast macabre shadows on my grinning face as I dance around in the thick, greasy smoke. The Persian and AzN fuckers' collective cloud of cologne (that, while we're on the subject, smells like nothing else more than self-delusion and desperation) would only fan the flames that much higher unto the mute heavens. I'd say nothing would make me happier, but I think I'm starting to forget what emotions are in this fucking horrible little box*.

*YRL Pod is about 10x10 feet. An entire wall dominated by row upon row of the horrible little machines that I have whiled away so many hours of my life handing out, nine-hundred and seventy-seven pennies an hour the price at which they have bought me.

I'm sorry, hold on. Give me a minute to compose myself and I'll start that again.

Ahem:

Yeah, work's great!

Addendum: I FUCKING HATE LAPTOPS I FUCKING HATE LAPTOPS I FUCKING HATE LAPTOPS I FUCKING HATE LAPTOPS I FUCKING HATE LAPTOPS I FUCKING HATE LAPTOPS I FUCKING HATE LAPTOPS I FUCKING HATE LAPTOPS I FUCKING HATE LAPTOPS and EXHALE we are Zen.