Being with me, part 2: sem computador.

5 06 2007

I know. You’re sick of the Gina-has-no-computer thing. But you don’t know the half of it. You’re probably there, in the comfort of your home, with a computer that works. You’re reading this, and you have the luxury of rolling your eyes and thinking, “Jesus, would she ever shut up about this thing?” And the answer is, sadly, no. I can’t. Because I just spent all of last night by myself with no distractions and it is not a pretty sight, people. I don’t like being with me. I am bored of me. My biggest thrill last night was doing the dishes and doing the laundry with a now-working washing machine. This was my night. I couldn’t write, I made thirty seven long distance calls for no reason other than to see if my voice still worked. I went to bed at 9:30 and woke up immediately because I thought I’d zipped myself up into a suitcase and couldn’t breathe. 

I need a computer. I need one in my house.

Maybe this is computer withdrawl. Maybe it’s because it was like a never ending supply–of communication, of entertainment, of relaxation through writing. Maybe it’s because it was always available to me, barring the very few times the internet was down. Maybe it’s because, whenever I craved anything, I knew I could find it in, on, through my computer. Maybe it’s no wonder I imagined myself zipped up into a suitcase because I felt stifled and trapped within my apartment. With my computer I can write freely, explore freely, do everything freely. And then, suddenly, when it was 9:30 at night and I’d just spent all of it in silence, I realized how very trapped I was by having no communication with the outside world, except with those people who answered their phones. And I went into the spare bedroom, took out my gigantic suitcase, opened it up and crouched inside of it, relieved it would be impossible for me to fit all the way and get trapped inside. 

Besides the suitcase adventure, I was worthless and quiet. I know, I could very well have opened up a book and read, simultaneously losing myself in ficional adventure while expanding my vocabulary; but wouldn’t you know, I’ve got a trillion books lying around my house and not a one interested me at all because there was one single thing I couldn’t have. I’d read a line or two of The Memory Keeper’s Daughter, and then I’d be lost thinking about the little while keyboard on my computer. It’s like I’m pining away for an old lover. I actually took her picture last night. I placed A COMPUTER on my bed, opened up the cover, and took pictures. OF A COMPUTER.

This is why I’m sick of me. Can I go home now?  




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