.45 Caliber Headspace

I’ve started making preparations to finally leave this crap city I’ve been living in and return to the rich, purifying waters of Los Angeles. This makes me excited for something besides mud wrestling for the first time in a couple years. I moved here for a girlfriend a while back and have since failed to find much worth liking in the Sco, including her. It’s a boring, ugly city filled with junkies, hookers and yuppies, and I hate yuppies. It’s also so small that you can barely walk a block before running into someone you either mugged or got pregnant, or both. In Los Angeles, it’s a lot harder to bump into someone you mugged or got pregnant, unless attending the Daytime Emmy Awards or a Yoga class.

One of the first things I wanted to do in preparation for the move was to fix the hard drive in my Powerbook. The hard drive actually died about a year ago, but since I’m a man, there is a precise sequence of events that needs to be followed before any kind of fixing can occur. First, I have to bitch about it being broken for an unreasonable period of time to anyone that will listen; or anyone that is too polite to scream, kick me in the shins, and/or run away. Once I realize that the bitching has yet to make the thing work again (this could take years), I will MacGyver it into being half-ass operational with a syringe and a used condom wrapper, neither of which are in short supply in the pile under my bed. This is puzzling, since I never use condoms, but the discarded wrappers work wonders on broken things, like your heart and your spirit.

The questionable stability of this makeshift repair work will only become apparent if jaunting merrily past the item in a careless manner; or if, as in this case, planning to leech off the the JCR’s wi-fi while engaging in social activity in the backseat of a Zipcar parked outside (and rented to Jake Charles). This is the most common reason for owning a laptop, a device that has been cleverly named to suggest the company you should keep while streaming girl-on-girl internet publishing from the comfort of a strip club parking lot. The final step, then, is to eliminate the option of paying someone who knows what he’s doing for the actual repair work. Instead, because I’m sure I can do everything better than anyone else, I will buy the replacement part myself and spend seven weeks figuring out how to disassemble the case so I can swap out the defective drive. After another seven weeks of reassembling the case and learning how to type backwards—since my assembly reference was in Taiwanese—the year-long project will finally be complete and I can return my attention to the more important things I’ve been missing, like recruiting my favorite strippers for a private naked jump-rope league.