I...I...I love her...I leave her...I love her

Sitting in front of the TV with laptop in hand, looking like a regular winner of the 20^th century multitasking competition he feels alive. Laptop is warm on his lap, signifying that he hasn’t been broken in yet into that sort of posh life because the heat sensors that will surely be dead in a couple of weeks are still sending electrical signals to his brain.

The idiot box is absently sending pictures to his brain, killing all concept of artistic innovation; the ultimate goal is to get us all thinking uniformly. We, the sheeple of America…

I…I…I love…I love her…I lover her…I lover…I lover…I love her…I leave her…I love her

Is this it? I never expected it to feel like this. Tell someone my story and they’ll envy it, but believe me there’s nothing to envy, not a thing.