Yet Another Entry Where Satan Makes A Guest Appearance
Tonight, I had dinner with Ziz and my parents and El Dukay, and this was a bittersweet occasion, because while the food was very, very excellent, this dinner was technically Ziz's goodbye dinner, because that fool child is moving to LOS ANGELES.
Which is all the way across the country, I MIGHT ADD. She is a heathen.
According to our little Jet Setter, she'll only be gone for a year. To this I say: poo. See, I think she should live with her awesome big sister (hint: this is me) and we should get drunk a lot. This is what I think. But NOOOOOO. She has this bee in her bonnet, something about "career" and "opportunity" and blah blah blah talky. (I tuned out. There is nothing more boring than "career." I mean, I'm trying to DRINK here, Buzzkiller.)
So now I don't know what I'm supposed to do when there are problems that only Ziz can solve, and there are a lot of such problems, particularly involving this DAMNED COMPUTER that I do not understand at all. See, I'm currently using Ziz's old Mac, and I DO NOT KNOW how to use a Mac. It is mysterious. Also, shiny. Also, I am constantly causing the little fucker to seize up. And, most significantly, when I tried to install wireless internet, I managed to knock out ALL internet service to my home. We don't know how this happened. I blame gnomes.
What we do know, however, is that after I brilliantly killed the internet, I had to connect using a DIAL UP MODEM. Like I was living in 1992, only without the metabolism I had when it was 1992, because apparently, that is asking too much.
But anyway. So I was on the dial-up, and Ziz instant messaged me (and this is something I don't truly understand, to be perfectly honest), and asked me if I'd fixed the connection. And I said no, and then we had this lovely exchange:
Self: It's completely dead. It's probably possessed.
Ziz: That's really the only explanation. It definitely wasn't your fault.
Self: POSSESSED, I tell you! By demons! By STAN HIMSELF.
(A very long time passes.)
Ziz: Wait. Who the fuck is Stan?
See? Because...not so much...Stan. I meant Satan. But it turns out, Stan is just a typo away.
And then we died of hysterical laughter, because PEOPLE....STAN! If you know someone named Stan, PLEASE send us his phone number so we can call him forever. And we will say witty things to him like, "Is your name Stan? Heeeeeee! You're, like, ALMOST Satan. Do you feel vaguely evil? Like if you had an 'a', you could do some serious damage?"
And then...that's the thing. I can't think of anyone else in the universe who would go ballistic with me at three in the morning over a typo, or who laughs at all of my jokes, or who can just look at me across the dinner table and say one word and render me hysterical. And now she's moving to California.
Ziz, take good care, and come home often. Watch out for sun poisoning, muggers, actors, and, most of all...Stan. I love you a million.