The basement holds me and a dad hours into solitaire. When he wins, the cards explode from their graves and bounce against the screen’s perimeter. We celebrate so hard, then start again. Later after the computer breaks, I still type porny hopes on its dead keys the way you read to the comatose or throw pennies into the fountain. I am practicing my typing, but also sending out good energy, or praying.

When the computer is fixed, I flex into MS Paint and erase immediately. Once we get dial up, I load rows of free previews until I am caught and divert to fanfiction.net of advanced ratings. I storyboard sequences onto printer paper and rip those up too, dreaming of video.

Upon broadband, I liquify celebrity photos. When will this load at the speed of thought?

It’s now! I make a circuit of twelve sites and a few aggregators daily, feeling fine. My brother is shouting into his headset to fill a meter, after which his character will respond more accurately as it drives around stealing. I think he is saying “BAIL HIM OUT, BAIL HIM OUT” but it’s “AYY LMAO, AYY LMAO,” because the sound of his voice is all it needs to learn and obey.