I’m writing this on my laptop because I kind of put my fist through my monitor and shattered my computer tower over my knee.
I’ve discovered something about myself: I don’t like the idea of electronic surveillance when it’s directed at me. After demolishing my computer and swearing like a longshoremen with Tourette’s, I scoured every flat surface, every nook, every cranny in the Secret Chamber, muttering to myself the entire time. Not surprisingly, I didn’t find anything. What did I expect? If the Midnight Rambler bugs your pad, you’re never going to find the damn things.
With all the stress and confusion and humiliation and violence of the last week, I think I’m going to respond in the time-honored Connor Mackenzie way to my problems:
I’m bailing, going to go stay with my brother in New Avalon. He and Moonbeam just had a kid; I know they’d appreciate somebody to babysit and stuff. Plus, they have that huge guest room downstairs. I’m sure they’ll be happy to see me. Right?
So yeah, I’m going to leave. Travel around for a while, see the country, spend some of the Black Budget. What’s keeping me here? It’s not like I have a job.
God, I can’t stand it here now, in my house. I feel like the Storm Riders are watching me.
I stop writing and flip off the walls, the ceiling, the room. For good measure, I double-flip off every point of the compass, just in case they’re watching.
Fucking Storm Riders.