New Shit at the Apple Store on Fifth

Why would I stand in line to buy stuff that he doesn’t need?  I would like you to know that this line is fucking long, actually. Plus I am surrounded by Cyberpunks who clearly believe that without adding the latest addition to their arsenal of electronic devices, they will miss the coming of the second savior. So yeah: Let’s all stay connected and stand in line for two hours while trying very hard to ignore each other, ‘cause God forbid we would find out that we don’t need what we all have been waiting for. Waiting. For two hours! In this bloody rain!

And I’m still not closer to the entrance of their supposed Walhalla where I will have to tackle an overly eager geek who just outgrew his pimples and knows all about everything I don’t want to know about but still have to ask.  ‘Cause I promised him I would, that’s why. I will probably say: Is this shit compatible with different shit and do we need an extra cable to connect it to other shit, because, you know, my man always wants to connect everything. Mr. Connector. Why did I tell him I wouldn’t mind doing this? AT ALL. Not. AT ALL. Of all the things I could have done today to piss away my valuable life, I volunteered for this. Of course the lesser gods of TV Meteorology did not predict Zeus’ wrath and so I am getting soaked. Yeah well, umbrellas are for sissies anyway.

It used to be different. All over me he was. Didn’t need an online audience to feel alive and kicking. Didn’t need to post his wanderings of my wonderland on Facebook either. He would pull me away from my books and do things to me that would make Eros proud. Eros my ass: This line slithers slower than a dead snake in the dessert. At least it doesn’t rain in the dessert.  Around me I hear messages pinging to the vital beat of the connected hearts of the waiting crowd with whom I suffer the pleasure of procrastinating.

Ping: Where R U?

Pong: Im in line frnw phne.

Ping: Wow! tht ss great!

Pong: Yeah. Ping. Ping. Ping

If I could move my feet to the rhythm of the incoming texts I would be back home within thirty minutes, studying Bulfinch’s Mighty Mythology while lounging on my sofa.  Mission accomplished: Mr. Connector happy with his new toy and I just happy to retreat to the world of the sane, where words are actually spelled with real vowels. Real Vowels!  But at this rate I could knit a sweater before it will be my turn with the geeks in the store.  But I wouldn’t. Knit a sweater, I mean. ‘Cause it’s raining and wet wool makes my skin crawl even more than standing in this line. That’s why.

My mom used to knit me sweaters though.  She put so much love in every cast of every stitch that the whole thing would be heavy and shapeless, but I always tried to feel her embrace while wearing it. An embrace is an embrace even if it makes you look like Elmer the Elephant. Love is still love even if it is shared in the public domain where every body drapes their lives in front of the camera to showcase eternal bliss. Ping. But he didn’t have to post that picture of us that makes me look like I really enjoyed it. Pong. ‘Cause I didn’t. It got 450 likes, only because my breasts looked real perky and young. Where was the colorful alpaca cover of my mother’s embrace when I needed it most?

I hear the thunder rolling in the distance. I could of course just leave. All it takes is a small step aside to the right and I will disappear in the stream of other city slackers who are walking the wet pavement in a steady flow on their way to different lines where they will wait for other shitty things. If only Zeus would strike this store, I would be happy to rub his stinky old feet until the end of times. Who needs a new dumb phone anyway? Beam me bloody up Scotty. Right now would be good.