If one were to work on the slowest computer in the world, it would be this one. I am certain of it. I have never spent so much of my time spending so much of my time. It has happened today, and last week on the same day. So, I guess I have before, which negates the never.
My Friday is like this almost every week. I wake up, I commute to work, and then I deal with this slow fucking computer. There is no sense in it really. I can’t type a single sentence without a pause… bleep… bleep… fade… pause. This piece took me three hours (years) to complete.
I start to talk to it, through the monitor, to ask it questions. It never answers me back. I say in a low voice, “Do you have to do this to me right now?” and “Really, why the fuck are you doing this to me right now?” The cursor is just as confused as I am. It thinks, is this my job, to sit and wait all day? Now I do nothing! It sits and it waits, while I sit and I wait. I wonder, was dial up a faster option? I wish I was back in 1999. I could then party like it. And at least more of my family members would be alive.
Usually Fridays are fun. Usually. Today it was sort of like that except for the money I was investing into a truck I had recently purchased. You could say it is a money pit, or I am shoveling money into it, and you wouldn’t be lying -maybe. I like my truck though, appropriately dubbed “The THUNDERCLAP”. It gets me around. From place to place I travel now, not just on my bike, but in my truck. How fun is that!? I know… very exciting.
Cajoled is my new favorite word. It means something like fucked around with, or played, or tricked. I think, one of those three definitions works, perhaps. It is a real word. –Though I don’t know what a fake word is… It makes me think of westerns (old movies or books) and cowboys and country and Mexicans… It never makes me think of Native Americans, Indigenous People, though, but it should. I’m pretty sure colonists screwed them over the worst, -cajoled them, really. But no one mentions it anymore. The idea is in a name, in a place, rooted in history written by the same people that it glorifies. Those pages, only to be forgotten under dust and years of sunsets, effectively ineffective. That is what I think about the word cajoled.
Lost and forgotten, it had many years sat. She said my prose didn’t work on the research paper. That would explain the 65% grade. My poetry did not explain the science. It clouded my ideas. I needed to attend to subject and verb, etc. And whatever else remains of English grammar. She can have it, all those proper things. Not since high school had I stooped so low on the grading scale. I know why though, it’s because things aren’t as clear as they seem. I would rather read Burroughs’ prose than a scientific journal, though that may be where the money is. You think? Sometimes I think too much empirical observation can fog the mind. Too many rules can just add to the boxy structure. So rigid, so orthodox, so formal, and it’s just ink on pulped trees. Black stains on dead plants. It’s what fills our pockets and proves our intelligence; money, degrees. How perfect do you have to be?
That is just how life is sometimes.
… I really don’t know.