To my right sits a Yo-Lite yogurt container ¾ full of air, ¼ of milk. In front of me sits you, my little, dying Eee with your shiny face looking at me, music coming from you into my ears. I sit here wondering what to scrawl across your screen . I’m in need of an idea for my blog. Any hints? No? Damn you. You’re, you’re no help. Ummm.
Blurb. Slurp. I drip some chilled milk into the cup with the cute face. One eye winks at me. The other stays open—topped by a swoosh that says Bailey’s. It’s lips are thin, red, and smiling. A blue porcelain bow rest at the bottom of the earlike handle. A black line encircles the outer rim. Under the inner rim the word “Yum” floats above the muddied black liquid. I lift it toward my mouth, tip it a bit, and let the warm liquid slid past my lips—slurp, sip.
Now, what to write? Um.
Eee? Blip, blop. Blip-blop-eeee. Eee can you help me? 8bit chip tones cruise from Last.fm, zip up the wire, and skip through the buds in my ears. Notes prance down the canal, dance on the drums, and echo though through cornucopia maze. Nintendo, Atari, Gameboy and Commodore 64 tones twist, stream, and bend . Familiar notes from Mario, Zelda, Tetras, and Frogger skip, fly, and feather. Bleep flutes and bitpop toots. Ta— da. La-ti-ta—. Blip-ti-di—. Music and rhythm mix. Reinvented notes and tones reset from a gamer generation. Old sounds in a new suit.
Eee, what do readers see?
Do they want to see the bulb next to me emit light from a swirl?
What do I write?
Do readers want to know about the hatters? Do you know that many hatters went mad in the nineteen century? Yes, ‘tis true. Hatters went mad in small, unventilated rooms with felt produce from furs covered in solutions containing mercury. They knitted rims and seams, breathing its vapors, each breath adding toxicity.
What do I say?
This silvery toxic vapor floats in the glass object shinning next to me. The light flickers. Will it explode? Will it go all over me? Will I go crazy? Naw. It’s only one bulb, right Eee?
I stop and sip my coffee.
Outside the wind blows and rain spittles the side walk and trees. I scratch my two day stubblery. I look in my cup. There is no coffee. The chip tunes have stopped because I’ve listened to long. I go to Last.fm and type in Pong not wanting to resume the blipblop songs. The yogurt container is empty. The light flickers. I look at the screen and noticed I’ve scrawled a whole page. I’ve done it. I’ve done it, Eee. The screen is littered with words. Yipee. I’ve done it. I’ve finished my entry.
