Thursday, May 26, 2005

iPodd Man Out

My broken iPod is ruining my life. The only electronic functions it's able to carry out are clicking and getting really hot, yet it manages to exert far more control over my happiness than I do. Between that stupid hunk of white plastic and the dumb whale of a photocopier, my day to day existence is completely ruled by inept machinery. It's like I'm astrologically cursed. I was born under the sign of Burnt-out Lightbulb with a rising Frozen Computer, and Jupiter begins its transit through Suspicious Car Rattle this week. With Mercury in Dead MP3 Player, celestial fireworks are in store!

Your lucky numbers are 1, 7, 35 and 68.

Without my iPod I can't sleep on the train anymore. It was my only defense against the chorus of horrible body noises produced by my less inhibited commuters, but now that my ears are debudded I bear witness to every snork, hawk, honk, burp, toot, glug and wheeze. It's not the volume of the noises that keeps me awake, but rather my own preoccupation with them. I know I'd be better off if I could just slip into unconsciousness (or, on photocopying days, death) and pass the hour asleep, but as soon as I close my eyes I feel that whole loss of sight/heightened hearing effect and every single repulsive noise sounds that much louder, and that much wetter, and that much more contagious, and worse still I can't see where the perpetrator is sitting so I can't prove that it isn't the woman I'm crammed next to.

You try to fall asleep when you've convinced yourself that there's a leaking nostril three inches from your face, its labored sniffs barely containing a glistening bulb of mucus whose trajectory to the train floor includes a brief pitstop on your cheek.

But it doesn't end with the train. After a brief respite in the wonderfully loud subway and on the comfortingly deafening street, I get to enjoy eight full hours of cubicle bliss. My office is devoid of human interaction and the resulting silence is ideal for gross noise distribution. My iPodless ears now pick up every granola-chewing second of my co-worker's breakfast. I can hear the toilet paper roll being spun furiously in the bathroom in response to an urgent situation I experienced every drop of.

Your lucky love matches are those born under Tech Support Hotline, and your lucky color for the week is Blue Screen Error.


Anonymous Anonymous said...


1:08 PM  
Blogger What'sHerFace said...

She's not my idol. I'm refusing to recognize her as the winner of that competition.

Also, you may be interested in this, which I think is pretty fascinating. It's a little conspiracy theory, but still:

1:35 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I have no doubt that the show was rigged. The judges have been tongue-bathing Carrie since day one, despite the fact that her pitch is terrible and her voice, compared to any other country singer out there (a genre where, regardless of personal feelings about the music, the singers are EXTREMELY talented), is laughably bad.

Whereas Bo, compared to other "rock" singers, has great pitch and great tone, and is perhaps one of the few male singers out there who is outrageously heterosexual-looking and -sounding. Which appeals to a wide range of folks. I call shenanigans.

3:30 PM  

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