A Short One

Two bottles of red wine between us and my tongue is black. The buzz nice, but inefficient. Anyways, it makes this whole lame exercise a little more fun.

Overall the process is not complex. A few cords plugged into a few slots. Run the disc. Setting up the router is straight forward. Still, I’ve never been too handy.

She yells to hurry up. I shake an empty bottle at her, stick out my black tongue. Give me time, I say.

And what does it matter? Today, pretty much a throwaway. A paid holiday. There is no wrong way to live it. Sleep until noon. Drink too much wine. Set up the wireless. All this is fine.

What to name the network, I ask. Ask again. But she is asleep, sprawled across the bed and snoring through deep maroon lips.

So the network named and a third bottle opened. On the bed, she’s still crashed out. On the couch, I slug wine. My laptop connected. All this is fine.

Times are good. A day with no work but full salary. Connected beyond six inches from my desk. In the living room. On the shitter.

Ah, what America’s about. Casual drinking and money for nothing and wireless internet. Freedom, what an abstract idea that is. To spread its gospel around the globe, difficult to get behind. By contrast, had it been Operation Iraqi Paid Holiday—if these were the principles to diffuse—maybe the public heart would be won more readily.

All this is fine.