Gone is the romance
That was so divine
'Tis broken
And cannot be mended
You must go your way
And I must go mine
But now that our love dreams
Have ended
What'll I do
When you are far away
And I am blue?
What'll I do?
What'll I do
When I am wond'ring who
Is kissing you?
What'll I do?
What'll I do
With just a photograph
To tell my troubles to?
When I'm alone
With only dreams of you
That won't come true
What'll I do?
In my younger and more precociously vulnerable years, a renowned code poet gave me some advice that I've been struggling to decipher and possibly then consider, ever since. "When you feel like criticizing anyone," he told me, "remember that all the people in this world haven't had your advantages. For while you are multidimensional, they are all ones and zeros. Zeros, mostly."
He then went on to cite my good looks, wickedly witty sense of humor, charm (especially with the ladies) and convincing humility as just a few of those advantages.
Around that time, his scripting caused my browser to freeze, so in consequence I reserved all my judgement until offshore tech support purged the offending code.
It was by poor choice that blog vote predetermined I spend the summer on a slender and withering appendage known as Shlong Island. As a struggling Ponzi schemer, I could only afford to squat on that less fashionable side of the Discourtesy Bay known as Bad Egg.
While the filthy rich, and also the occasional Canadian expatriot and Australian celebrity thrived and inflicted themselves on the more fashionable arm referred to as Fabergé Egg, I made do in a cottage where the only amenities were a Meth Lab left in haste by a previous tenant, and Lambonline dial-up Internet.
Only my neighbor, Pugsly, would be exempt from both Ponzi scheme and generic distain for other lifeforms. Pugsly, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. For Pugsly turned out all right in the end. It was what preyed on him, what foul dust floated in the wake of his posts.
At least twice a year, teams of warehouse club sample servers, amateurish writers, unabashed plagiarists, copyright infringers and under-the-table Teamsters would descend upon Pugsly's place to construct Puglypaloosa.
Like moths to a zapper, errant bloggers would wander into Pugsly's fragrant and enchanted garden; perhaps wondering why he chose not to "defoliate" per commonly accepted hygenic practice.
There was music from Justin Bieber and the Jonas Brothers through those summer nights among the trolling and the word verification and the stars. They started their quest for bondage involving animal costumes, and yet somehow ended up at Pugsly's blog; a simplicity of mind serving as its own ticket of admission.
(end of Part-1)
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