I mixed one drink, he's in memoriam

I aten't dead. The same cannot be said of my laptop; it went suddenly paralytic on Monday and by Tuesday could be neither revived nor shut down hard, which left me not at all pleased that this crash had occurred while I was in the middle of a new story and two extensive livejournal replies. (I have since recovered almost all relevant data, but it is currently consigned to the limbo of an external hard drive; I have at present nowhere to transfer any of it to. I find this immensely frustrating. Compared to a complete loss of mail, music, stories, etc., however, I'll take what I can get.) This is the machine I bought in January to replace the casualty of the unfortunate backpack incident—used, I knew, but I was still expecting more than eight months in its company. I am beginning to think I emit a kind of radiation fatal to the average Macintosh. Perhaps I should just go back to the typewriter under my desk. My mother wrote her dissertation on it; that should be worth something on the karma market.

I have also come to the conclusion that it is never a good sign to realize that you have just said something reminiscent of Sydney Carton in a context unrelated to self-sacrifice, Dickens, or eighteenth-century English law.

At least I have a pineapple.