It’s official: My Internet hates me. My Internet just isn’t that into me. My Internet wants to break up but, just like some guys I’ve dated, it’s going to do it in a slow, sadistic, maybe-I’ll-talk-to-you-today-maybe-I-won’t fashion. My Internet sucks.
Must go to Apple store to have Spawn of Satan computer beaten with a large mallet, er, worked on. If I have not returned your email, I am very, very sorry. It’s not my fault. You know whose fault it is? Let me direct you to my soon-to-be-ex-computer, Ass-hat.
Grumble. Piss. Moan. Whine.
While I try to figure out why I emit an anti-technology pheromone that renders all gadgets inoperable or just generally wonky by my slightest touch, please enjoy further Maureen Johnson-Libba Bray idiocy. Thank God Maureen has the techno gene. Along with her laser eye.