Age old question:
Which is the superior OS for dealing with a virus? And let’s keep it proprietary.

Whichever it is, the loser’s gotta be the product of corporate shenanigans out to cheaply make a buck. Yeah/no? Are we gonna perpetuate the myth of an easy weakness? A vulnerability? A target.

When it comes to unwanted transmissions,

Macs : PCs :: men : women.

There must be something to account for the skewed ratio of infections, right?


Choices make all the difference. In how we feel, profoundly. It’s risky business, for instance, to laud another’s actions without due consideration for all the decisions that were involved.

It’s not clear, though, on the flip side of feelings, whether or how much decision-making power holds sway over our happiness in the end. What I can say is, predictably, I don’t like it one bit.

I don’t like one bit being forced into a decision complicit by chance. Quitting is one thing; doing without is another. Not having a machine I can reliably game on gnaws at me for relief. I’ll pull through somehow, thanks to irreparable wear and tear, without my go-to opiate. And in the foreseeable future that gaping absence isn’t going to change.

What would make it all worth it is, if as an ex-gamer, I get to meet and talk to a bonafide ex-gay.

A man picked up a blonde at a bar. They went back to her place and had sex in the dark, where, exhausted from all that mattress wrestling, they fell asleep. When he woke up, he woke up with a face full of her hair. In the light of day he noticed her roots were showing.

Over coffee, he confronted her jokingly about how she was “showing her true colors” and that, if he had known, he wouldn’t have stayed the night.

She didn’t find him particularly funny.

“I’ve always wanted to be blonde,” she said, “Blondes have more fun, after all. And I just knew, I was meant to be – it’s not fair I’m not a natural blonde.”

He blinked. “But you aren’t.”

“But I am blonde. This is how everyone sees me. And you have got to refer to me as such.”

“You bleached your hair; you’re a bottle blon – “

Rolling her eyes, she smacked him on the shoulder.  “I am BLONDE blonde. And it’s not for anyone but me to share that I wasn’t born this way.”

“Have you considered…not being blonde?”

“What’s it to you?”

He shrank from her glare. “Uh. Nothing?”

She calmed down and smiled. “At least now you won’t be surprised when you see my middle school photos.”

“Uh huh.”

“Brown really wasn’t my color.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“I’m much more convincing as myself when the dye sets in.”

“I’ll just let myself out, after…excuse me, where’s the bathroom?”

“Down the hall on the left.”

“…gotcha. Thanks.”