StreEA m # 5 9

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I lost the first stream [of the day]. That makes this the second stream [of the day]. The godham COMPUTER lost the first stream. I do not understand WHY it lost the first stream. I did not want to write about my frustration over having lost the first stream. But I cannot help it. I am really, really, QUITE pissed off. This godham machine. Of course, you’re going to blame me. Naturally, you’ll think I’m the one who made the mistake. But no. I went through the same routine I’ve gone through for the last fifty-eight streams and I’ve never had this sort of problem occur. God, I am SO pissed off. I’ll get over it. [Upon further reflection, I kinda-sorta figured out what I did wrong: Instead of duplicating the “blank” stream template document, I created a shortcut. So, fine: My bad.] Fortunately, the streams are schlock. But this stream is certainly not as colorful as the one I inexplicably [and now explicably] lost. I hope this doesn’t ruin my entire day. I’ve a buddy coming in from England. I don’t want this frakk up to overshadow our reunion. He’s only in town for the weekend. I’ll run this fury out on the treadmill. That’s what the treadmill is good for: running all the little furies out and dousing them with sweat. I’m feeling better just thinking about it. It’s strange, how intense and fleeting my feelings have been over the past few months. Everything is fluid – including my ability (or lack thereof) to control my temper. I don’t want to end the day with my wisdom teeth chewing cornbread from that stupid tree. No, how are you not going to feel the next ice-cream cone with your head on fire? I don’t think you should set your head on fire in the first place. I think that would be a mistake. That won’t impress the ladies, either. Unless it’s all a trick, and you come out of it unscorched. Huh. So there’s no such word as “unscorched,” eh? That’s frakked up because we all know what “unscorched” means, don’t we? It means something hasn’t been frakking scorched. Godham spell-checker. Godham dictionary. I am not going to drink that bottle of poop. No, you go ahead and have your fill, but I won’t be kissing you after. And I won’t be kissing you ever again. That’s one surefire way to guarantee that I’ll never try to kiss you: if you drink a bottle of poop – even if it’s through a straw and mixed with chocolate syrup. It’ll be amazing if you don’t get sick. Even if you mix the poop with vanilla ice-cream, I ain’t ever gonna kiss you. Why would you do that to yourself? That just isn’t right. There is nothing right about consuming shit. Your body is trying to get rid of it. If it wanted to keep it, it would keep it. I’ll warrant it smells bad for a reason. It’s a godham hint telling you NOT to eat or drink it. That’s your body’s biology being smart. You should listen to your body. The problem is, however, that the body doesn’t speak English. Maybe it speaks Spanish, though. I need to learn Spanish. Spanish and French. Bottom retched. 

8 August 2008

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