The least important reason why I haven't blogged since Lily Allen was still hot shit, is a computer situation. My Inspiron is no more... It died on me a little while ago, in the very week all of my papers and reports were due. Spare me the preaching about back-ups, for risk of a "How about I back YOU up?!" or a "Your MOM needs a back-up". Bottom line, I didn't have any and I was royally screwed.
Fast forward to me biking over to the repair shop, expecting maybe not a red carpet but at least a bit of a spotlight. Try: "Fill out this form, we'll add you to the list and get back to you". But...butbut...no no, i don't think you understand. "Fill out the form". Okay, would it help if I got you a sandwich? You look like the kind of guy who co...no? A hug? Okay, fine, add me to the list. Cool. So what's my number? No number? Okay, some sort of receipt? You don't do receipts, you say? Well, yes, I realise you have my name, but I have nothing that proves that...Why I need a receipt? I don't know, someone could come in pretending to be me and steal it. Or I could come in and you could pretend not to know who I am. Or I could come back and find this place abandoned and ask a one-eyed janitor what happened to the pc-shop and he'd cackle and say "No one has left or entered that building in years, pet" and than I would look in the direction of the building and for some reason the camera angle would be a bit off, so that my face is slant as I'm looking up with a slight frown and my mouth agape and you can see a big part of the darkening sky. And then what? Sir? Sir? * knocks on door * Sir? Could I...Hello? Computer man? Okay. Well. Thanks, I guess. I'll hear from you, right? Please?
I got the liberating call last week, rushed over and got a slightly warmer welcome. "Sofie? Oh, right, the case". Apparently whatever killed my laptop is rare enough for it to be named a "case", unless he was taking a jab at me for getting off my bike slightly not so elegantly (cut me some slack, I was tied to my backpack cause of the ear phones attached to the discman in there - yeah, that's right, a discman, no i-pod for me since I have no computer, remember?) outside. Anywho, no clue what's wrong with it, but it'll basically set me back about two months' rent. Ouch.
On the bright side, it's helped me to finally kick the habit of spending a good half hour (make that 45 minutes) each day looking at pictures of retarded half-celebrities on a variety of gossip websites. I've been using other people's computers, so I want to spend my time usefully and wholesomely, sticking to email, facebook & news sites. I honesty don't even miss it. My only guilty pleasure is gofugyourself.com, which i think is okay because it's not so much gossip as fashion and it's pants-wettingly hilarious in a very sweet way. Like this entry:
"I am mildly obsessed with musician Alison Goldfrapp's name. Say it with me: Goldfrapp. It's so fun. It could work in so many contexts: as a replacement swear word ("Aw, goldfrapp, I dropped my feather boa into my drink"), a raunchy verb ("I went home with him and we goldfrapped for hours"), an obscure sport popular in Scandinavian countries ("Hallå, I am Fjord Bjorn, zee Svedish national goldfrapp champion") an expensive novelty iced coffee beverage ("I'll have a grande goldfrappuccino with whipped cream, please") the name of a dashing, authority-averse TV detective whose boss is always yelling at him ("Get ... me... GOLDFRAPP") or the name of the aforementioned detective's villainous nemesis, frequently screamed at the skies while our hero kneels over a dead body and shakes his fist ("GooooldfrAAAAAAAAAAAPPPP!"), or even as a noun for something sort of squicky ("Shoot, I got goldfrapp all over my Jimmy Choos"). Unfortunately, if she's not careful, it could end up in our lexicon as, "Oh my God, that woman is totally pulling a Goldfrapp," or "I almost goldfrapped myself when I saw that shirt."
I'm a little too caught up in exams right now to do much goldfrapping, but once I'm done, look out world. Like a mission from GAD.