There’s no other explanation.
She’s a cute country girl with a priceless but fading naïvety who knows more about raising cows than she does about raising hell...but don’t let that blue-eyed, sweet-cheeked veneer fool you - she is a motherfucking wrecking-ball to the olde Victorian house that is my computer. She is a filthy virus, a cancer, a plague of shorting circuits and system failures, a pestilence to the cyber-world that I am frequently cut-off from.
Neither of us understands it, but a moose on the highway doesn’t realize he’s dangerous either.
At least the girlfriend accepts that she’s a hazard...and though we don’t have the technology, nor the wherewithal, to fully ascertain or even grasp the reasons why, I do have my suspicions:
She is a robot.
This explains the accounting job, the relentless cleaning of all things house, the click-click-whirring glitches in her speech patterns, the unapologetic logic of her grocery lists, the startling efficiency of her days off...she’s a cyborg-refugee-starchild from a doomed planet of cyber-revolutionaries who hasn’t yet been assimilated by our woeful computer-technology, and for that I’m thankful.
For the many times my internet-connection has gone kaput after she’s left the den, however, I am not.
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