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Google

Whenever I get injured or sick, my go-to method is the ol’ “do nothing.” Yep. I do nothing. I continue on with my life, dragging my half-working body around like I’m the guy from Monty Python and The Holy Grail. “It’s just a flesh wound!” I shout as my arm falls off.

Is it just me, or do you find it sort of invasive when someone comes over to your house and uses your computer? It’s not like I have Google searches on there like “How to kill someone” or “Naked five-year-old boys riding horses and laughing” but there are some things that I’d like to keep private.

Eventually, though, you realize that all of his talk of being a “community builder at a web-based start up” means absolutely zero in terms of actual gainful employment, and become pretty convinced that he must be stealing TVs or something to pay rent.

Before that night — or the curvature of that night, those fuzzy outlines once again — I cared. I cared about my family; I cared about my friends; I cared (too much) about my ex-lovers; I cared about the future. To care is to step outside of oneself, to face the cold blade of another human on guard because some other human hurt her years ago.

“w00t,” says the office ‘cool guy’, who likes to wear his plaid fedora on the group coffee outings while he explains joyfully to everyone about all the circa 2007 bands in which he is interested.

If you want to see me behave like the hungry lioness, crouching in the African brush waiting to attack her prey, try and borrow my laptop. I’ll warn you first, you should probably protect your jugular, because things are about to get ugly. I see you ‘friend.’

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