Sorry for the blogging pause of late. My poor little laptop (dear little "Newt") caught a nasty worm. I thought he had bought it for good, but like the stubborn little hard drive that he is, he continues to hang on, like on life support in a coma, and I sort of feel like I am cheating on him by resorting to the big nasty desktop to blog.
(Newt's always felt so inferior, size wise, and I hate to add further insecurity issues.)
Okay, so I'm a little insane about my laptop. And I'm the one who nearly killed him in the first place. It's all so embarrassing. Maybe I shouldn't share... well okay.
It all started two days ago (remember when I was complaining about how all the hyper-linking on our book list was making me a little crazy?) so I'm too brain-fried to write, and I've only checked on my emails for Ted like 28 billion times, so I decide to go on Facebook.
I get an innocuous little message from a friend. And I'm going to be totally honest about this, since an unsecured blog is the perfect place to divulge my innermost secrets... Anyway, the message says, "Subject: You look surprised, it was our lovely spy camera!"
Now I know what you all must be thinking: step away from the computer! Just walk away, Brodi. Walk away.
And this is where it gets a little out-of-body-experience for me. I start thinking to myself, "man, people can be such idiots." But at the exact same moment, as I'm thinking only fools would fall for this, my traitorous pointer finger clicks on the link. And then I'm deleting like a mad woman, anything and everything that pops up, trying to stop the freight train of worm filth.
My mouth hangs open for a few long seconds as I stare at the screen. What have I done? (she screamed as she fell to the floor, wringing her hands and scratching her face like a heroine addict). Remember, total truth.
But, for a moment, the screen looks okay. Crisis averted, right?
Right. The End.
Of course not, because this is me we're dealing with.
(Warning, scenes of graphic violence below. Seriously. If you have an affinity for stick figures, walk away from your computer now.)
Suddenly, hundreds of little warnings pop up, showing little stick figures with the x's in their eyes, and then more stick figures pop up, and one stick figure grabs a stick knife and beheads the other stick figure, and dismembers his stick figure dog, and holds the dogs head up on the screen for me to see, and he is laughing and taunting and shaking the severed head at me.
A little word bubble pops up next to the stick figures mouth, and it says, "We're watching you, and every key you strike will be recorded. Welcome to cyber-purgatory, Biiyyyaatch!"
(Sam has insisted I make clear that the preceding story is a representation of what I pictured the Hackers doing, not what actually appeared on my screen. I'm sure you all know that what happens in my brain can be a very different version from actual events.)
And all I can think about is my book. Not the one Sherpa Ted has, but the next one. The one I've never emailed to myself, and never backed up. The one I've been working on since Ted was born. I mean, since Ted became my agent.
Like a woman possessed, in one single motion, I grab a CD, burn my book, flip off the wi-fi, and look frantically around my kitchen for the phantom worm, who I'm sure must have cameras installed by this point.
Then I call Sam. And let me preface that, at the time, he didn't understand how I felt about my little "Newt". He does now.
Sam: "You clicked on WHAT???!!!"
Brodi (in tears): "Something about, if you want to save this little boy, starving in Africa, click here."
Sam (incredulous): "What did it really say?"
Brodi (grudgingly): "Subject: You look surprised, it was our lovely spy camera!"
Sam (after long pause): "Bro, that's like me clicking on a link that says, 'Hey! I captured this great pic of you and Paris Hilton!"
Brodi: "I know, I know."
Sam: So what do you want me to do?
Brodi: I want you to leave work early, and run as fast as you can around the earth until it starts rotating the other way, and time reverses, and I don't click on the button.
So anyway, Sam declined to petition the Governor for a state of emergency, and instead I spent the entire day cradling my dying little Newt and chatting with my old high school computer geek friend who was trying to walk me through the steps to quarantine the SOB .
Fast forward two days (I bet you're wishing I had pulled the "fast-forward" lever a little sooner. Sorry.)
Not only can I not write (which should be fairly obvious from this rambling post), but I can't seem to clean my house. Okay, that's normal, but I can't even cook. Okay, that's normal too. But I can't check emails or blog. Ummmmm...
Come to think of it, why have I been crying for two days straight over this?
Because he's my little Newt. And he won't just die a quick painless death. He's hanging on, for me. When my Dad was in the hospital, fighting for his life, little Newt got me through. But he's failing fast... and I've cheated on him with the bigger, badder desk top.
I know, I know. It's only a laptop. It's an "it". I know this. I do.
Will compile list of Adult Reads and Middle Grade reads soon.
Should have added THE BOOK THIEF to the Young Adult list.
Would try to provide you the hyper link, but you know where that can lead...
(Newt's always felt so inferior, size wise, and I hate to add further insecurity issues.)
Okay, so I'm a little insane about my laptop. And I'm the one who nearly killed him in the first place. It's all so embarrassing. Maybe I shouldn't share... well okay.
It all started two days ago (remember when I was complaining about how all the hyper-linking on our book list was making me a little crazy?) so I'm too brain-fried to write, and I've only checked on my emails for Ted like 28 billion times, so I decide to go on Facebook.
I get an innocuous little message from a friend. And I'm going to be totally honest about this, since an unsecured blog is the perfect place to divulge my innermost secrets... Anyway, the message says, "Subject: You look surprised, it was our lovely spy camera!"
Now I know what you all must be thinking: step away from the computer! Just walk away, Brodi. Walk away.
And this is where it gets a little out-of-body-experience for me. I start thinking to myself, "man, people can be such idiots." But at the exact same moment, as I'm thinking only fools would fall for this, my traitorous pointer finger clicks on the link. And then I'm deleting like a mad woman, anything and everything that pops up, trying to stop the freight train of worm filth.
My mouth hangs open for a few long seconds as I stare at the screen. What have I done? (she screamed as she fell to the floor, wringing her hands and scratching her face like a heroine addict). Remember, total truth.
But, for a moment, the screen looks okay. Crisis averted, right?
Right. The End.
Of course not, because this is me we're dealing with.
(Warning, scenes of graphic violence below. Seriously. If you have an affinity for stick figures, walk away from your computer now.)
Suddenly, hundreds of little warnings pop up, showing little stick figures with the x's in their eyes, and then more stick figures pop up, and one stick figure grabs a stick knife and beheads the other stick figure, and dismembers his stick figure dog, and holds the dogs head up on the screen for me to see, and he is laughing and taunting and shaking the severed head at me.
A little word bubble pops up next to the stick figures mouth, and it says, "We're watching you, and every key you strike will be recorded. Welcome to cyber-purgatory, Biiyyyaatch!"
(Sam has insisted I make clear that the preceding story is a representation of what I pictured the Hackers doing, not what actually appeared on my screen. I'm sure you all know that what happens in my brain can be a very different version from actual events.)
And all I can think about is my book. Not the one Sherpa Ted has, but the next one. The one I've never emailed to myself, and never backed up. The one I've been working on since Ted was born. I mean, since Ted became my agent.
Like a woman possessed, in one single motion, I grab a CD, burn my book, flip off the wi-fi, and look frantically around my kitchen for the phantom worm, who I'm sure must have cameras installed by this point.
Then I call Sam. And let me preface that, at the time, he didn't understand how I felt about my little "Newt". He does now.
Sam: "You clicked on WHAT???!!!"
Brodi (in tears): "Something about, if you want to save this little boy, starving in Africa, click here."
Sam (incredulous): "What did it really say?"
Brodi (grudgingly): "Subject: You look surprised, it was our lovely spy camera!"
Sam (after long pause): "Bro, that's like me clicking on a link that says, 'Hey! I captured this great pic of you and Paris Hilton!"
Brodi: "I know, I know."
Sam: So what do you want me to do?
Brodi: I want you to leave work early, and run as fast as you can around the earth until it starts rotating the other way, and time reverses, and I don't click on the button.
So anyway, Sam declined to petition the Governor for a state of emergency, and instead I spent the entire day cradling my dying little Newt and chatting with my old high school computer geek friend who was trying to walk me through the steps to quarantine the SOB .
Fast forward two days (I bet you're wishing I had pulled the "fast-forward" lever a little sooner. Sorry.)
Not only can I not write (which should be fairly obvious from this rambling post), but I can't seem to clean my house. Okay, that's normal, but I can't even cook. Okay, that's normal too. But I can't check emails or blog. Ummmmm...
Come to think of it, why have I been crying for two days straight over this?
Because he's my little Newt. And he won't just die a quick painless death. He's hanging on, for me. When my Dad was in the hospital, fighting for his life, little Newt got me through. But he's failing fast... and I've cheated on him with the bigger, badder desk top.
I know, I know. It's only a laptop. It's an "it". I know this. I do.
Will compile list of Adult Reads and Middle Grade reads soon.
Should have added THE BOOK THIEF to the Young Adult list.
Would try to provide you the hyper link, but you know where that can lead...
