Happy With Alone

Go ahead.

Keep laughing. That's alright. I'm not through with my ruminations on human coupling. Believe it or not, when you IM (Instant Messenger) or PM (the IRC equivalent) or IRC (IM on steroids) you can make a very real connection with the person(s) on the other side of your screen. Although they are unseen and unheard, you can have a connection with them that is so real that in your mind you can both see and hear them. Your mind can generate the entire physical process...all it needs is the stimulus from the other side, and like in the Matrix, when they connect your brain to it, the Matrix provides your mind all that you'll fucking need.

With this incorporeal connection, you are now throwing your poor brain into maximum overdrive. Realize that there is a glut of information out there. On the Internet, on IRC, and FTP servers. But what ties them all together, believe it or not, are not webservers, but IRC servers. The IRC network is the nervous system of the entire Internet. You may use the World Wide Web, but these people REALLY USE the WWW.

It's not uncommon to find a channel, with it's own website, where you can go and see pictures and bios of the regulars in the channel. It's also not uncommon to find channels with their own music playing from their own Internet radio station and it's DJ inside the chat room taking requests. Incredible. All of these bells and whistles tie you into a concerted, submersive experience in IRC with your fellow IRCians.

But now I drain myself. IRC is seriously draining on the psyche, because, I believe, your brain has to work so hard in making images. Almost like reading a book, as opposed to watching television. You can grow tired of reading after awhile. You can never grow tired of watching the boobtube. But after spending time online now...in about three hours time, I'm exhausted.

I can't keep my fucking eyes open. I'm nodding off like a dope fiend. I'm weak and tired, and crawl into bed to sleep for an hour and recharge. I'm playing with addiction here. I know it. I'm back online as soon as I'm done. There is no pause to do anything else. There is nothing. NOTHING in my cupboards or refrigerator. There is some salad, oatmeal, saltine crackers. NO FOOD. I have no compunction to go out and go shopping for myself. I just sit and listen to music and stay online. NOT my music mind you. On one spring-like day last week I got off the elevator and right to the side of the doors on my floor there is this big box. On the outside of the box is a depiction of a large stereo with tall speakers. I thought to myself then...just how long will it be before we experience the maximum audio output of this motherfucker?

My question was answered this morning around seven O'clock, just moments after I got up for my cup of coffee. The motherfucker starts peeling the plaster off the walls. SONOFABITCH!! Now common sense would dictate that at least one of the fucking crows on the floor would emerge and begin squawking about the volume. But no. These bitches TURN UP THEIR STEREOS to drown out whoever's. It's an all out audio Armageddon on my floor. I go and take a dump, trying to find out where all of the music is coming from. On my way to the bathroom Paula comes out of the elevator: "HEY HOBOBOB!" The second she sees me, completely oblivious to the audio assault. I just would like her to be pissed at me for once and not say a word to me. I would like her to try to hurt my feelings, or make me sensitive to hers by NOT TALKING TO ME! But no! She has to jump out of her skin the second she sees me. Hey Paula, I mumble back and duck into the bathroom. What do I do about this noise. Nothing. It's not me to call the cops to have the entire floor now pissed at me for the deterrent. It would just be my luck to have everyone now mad at me and not each other to begin with. Fuck that. I calmly return to my room and put on my headsets...and surf until it's over.

But Paula isn't the only person that believes that I am their closest friend. Later in the evening after the sun drops way down, forever gone this day, I slink out, unbeknownst to the residents of the building, the street people, everything and everyone, and make my way to the Gristedes on 96th street to do my shopping. Upon finishing and rushing back to the building, I hear my name called out, just before crossing the last fucking street into the safety of the building. I turn around to see Igor running up to me. "Hey Hobobob! You've got to come to my place. I need help with my computer!" What's up, Igor? He has a problem with his Skype account. He needs to put more money on it and does not know how.

I want to kill myself right there. Jump fully in front of the moving traffic to be slammed by a speeding taxicab. Instead, like a schmoe, I agree reluctantly. I'm already caught and out in the street. I go to his room, which is totally destroyed, clothes all over the place, shit everywhere. It was catastrophic. We sit down on his computer and he tells me that he no longer has the Internet. He couldn't afford to pay for his cable bill since losing his job to the economy. The only thing he has going for him is his Internet connection coming from somewhere in the building. He asks me how do I get on the Internet. I tell him that I have a cable modem, and that it was still up. "Do you have a wireless router?" Yes dude, and I got the best one that I could find to broadcast that motherfucking signal all over the Eastern coastline. He punches up his WIFI locator. Points to his router point of connection: ZAPRANOTH. That' right baby, I tell him, that's me. He thanks me profusely for pumping out the signal. I could lock out the bulk of them easily but I chose not to. There are just too many people like Igor. Now sickly dependent on ZAPRANOTH. I am their pusher, supplying their dope. I will continue to do so as long as I can.

I fix up Igor's Skype account and say my goodnights. I am not tired, I'm just tired of being a guest, I'm tired of being cordial of sociable. I want the safety and security of my room and a locked door...

...and of course the Internet.

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