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Friday May 11, 2001, 02:35

I really have nothing pleasant to say. And so I will not say it. I should channel this energy into something creative, but really I just want to complain. And I don't even have enough energy to talk to the three girls sitting at the bar where I was having dinner and how utterly in awe I was of the man who walked up to them and started to talk. "Ew," I thought. "He's so slimy." And maybe he was. And maybe they really wanted him to leave.

But on the other hand I haven't met any girls lately. And while I'd be willing to meet both girls and guys, really, I want to meet some girls with the express interest of possibly getting into their pants. I mean, really. It's springtime in the city and the tank tops and flip-flops are coming out of hiding. The capri pants are showing up again (because, as Old Navy says, "you gotta get this look.") and everyone's just getting a little sexier.

And me, I can't get high speed Internet access in my apartment. I live in a nice fucking apartment. Really nice I must say. I am a lucky little rich kid and I live in a nice apartment. A nice apartment that is fed from the phone company by a big bundle of fiber optic cables. Cables that, in fact, do not carry DSL signals. This nice apartment also does not seem to be wired for cable modem access. In this, mere blocks away from Silicon Alley, I am in a broadband wasteland.

This significantly lowers my sex appeal, in my mind.

Which is, perhaps, the reason why I am not attracting women. They should be flocking towards me, but they come close and they can sense it. "That," they say, "is a nerd. But it is a nerd without all the perks that come from being a nerd. That is simply a nerd with a crappy dialup."

And then they flee.

I call after them "Oh beautiful, bandwidth-hungry vixens, please return to my arms! I once had broadband! I once was 'wired' to the gills! Please please come back!"

But my cried fall on deaf ears and they fall under the spell of those more bandwidth endowed than I.

And I have no furniture. It also significantly lowers one's social status when one must entertain one's guests on one's floor. Also, when this one does not have any food or drink, one appears not to be able to take care of one's self. One's assessment of one's self is not entirely inaccurate, where one happens to be me.

And to kick me in the balls just a little more, I read today that "they" (that is the un-named, un-faced, individuals who in fact have names and faces in the article in which I read all of this) will be a building a hotel directly across from my apartment. This will do two things. It will cause an unbelievable amount of noise. And it will block my view of the lovely tree-lined streets of the East Village.

"STOP URBAN SPRAWL" I will color onto signs constructed from cardboard scavenged from the local Duane Reade. Meetings will be held in my high-rise apartment to "stop the developers from ruining the picturesque landscape." Perhaps Earth First will rally to my aid as I toss wrenches into the gears of the cranes hoisting girders and concrete slabs high above the city streets. I will win back my view.

Are you cute? And easy? Me too! We should hang out.

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