Manic-Depressive

I came downstairs and stuffed five or more pieces of gum in my mouth, the ritual unwrapping preparing me for the task of twisting in the knobs of the large touch screen that's served me patiently for so long into the computer whose painted exterior I have reassembled after the fateful day after Steve Jobs died when I poured water on its insides in the attempt to grow an apple I had acquired by trading a man in a gallery some drawings. And to my terror, it made its hello call with just a plug and the image of SpongeBob hammering in toast to his table while Mr. Krabs looks on dismayed filled my scratched screen. With a frenzied energy I finished setting it up, while it still wiped its eyes from its long slumber. So here I am, on-line for the first time in a month. Terrified of my inbox, and still so strangely adapted to computers.