Killing Time

[ctechguy]

Bring the shades down, close the door to the computer room. Except we are not going to call it the computer room anymore, we are going to call it, "The Nest".

Let piles of Chinese takeout boxes stack up like styrofoam skyscrapers, ashtrays overflowing like waterfalls of filters and soot, dim lighting gives that hazy pollution sunset feel. Wrap yourself in blankets, hunched before the glow of the screen like a moth drawn to flame before they are consumed by LCD fire.

Keep clicking, ignore the sounds of the external world, it is illusion, the real world exists on the screen. Keep clicking, until the strongest muscle in your emaciated body is in your index finger. Click until the finish on your mouse and keyboard leave visible telltale marks of the repetitiveness of your simulated life.

Forget showering, or changing clothes, and avoid attempts to penetrate "The Nest", no one must know of your secret shrine to the glowing screen of pixels, your two dimensional companions and simulated landscapes and trees.

Bask in the sun of Antonica, but let no one enter your digital temple. Let not one ray of real sunlight touch your precious skin, or pasty, computer boy face. Call out of work when it strikes your fancy, and always keep the Others away. Alcohol, with can and glass woven together to form the finest armor and protection you could ever muster against the ever present Others who come calling from time to time. They must never, ever know of the hypnotic glow of the screen, the magnificient horror of The Nest, the fermented liquid and aluminum and glass armor, never reveal the geographic landscape of random trash, cheetos bags, and remnants of other needed supplies that form mountain ranges and valleys of trash around your computer portal, and the nicotine stained hands and lips, the secret repast brought by the delivery driver that you over tip but give the cold shoulder to in hopes of buying his silence, as you shuffle back to the warm glow of the screen with your greasy delights you wonder what they might have seen over your shoulder, the wild abandon of chicken wings and lomein as the sound of DIIIIINNNNGGGG reverberates through your speakers and your weakened ear drums, the unswerving fealty you give to the glow that beckons, the pixels that call you on and on and on, to serve them, in a unique twist of fate, now the game plays you, you are the entertainment and the game is your master, you are a vessel that allows the world within the screen to use your essence to justify it's own existence...

So do that, or play normally, and just be an all around cool guy. I would try stuff like that, and see if it helps? Let me know?

P.S. Aesop is 100% right about Fippy.