Thoughts Running Through My Mind As I Type In The Wrong Gmail Password For The Thousandth Time

I could probably carry a child to term in the time it’s taken me to remember my gmail password. And that includes rendering an artificial womb from a balloon and a slinky and jamming it up my butt. Not to mention procuring an egg from a desperate prostitute and sperm from, well, someone other than me, I guess. Or maybe I would use my own sperm. I don’t want to be a surrogate mother if I’m going to be the first male to give birth. I want to keep that deformed mass of gelatinous flesh, claim as my own, name it, suckle it, whatever you do with mutant babies these days. Toss it in a dumpster. A special dumpster.

If I have to make up a new password again I swear to God I am going to kill myself. I’ve sworn this before, like when Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith came out and I made a pact with my friend that if the movie was no good we would commit ritualistic suicide together. We swore a black oath and shook hands solemnly, but when the movie did turn out to be like watching an old man discover his asshole we didn’t kill ourselves. I think we were too disappointed for that. Where’s the glory in suicide when you’re only doing it because you weren’t quite as pleased with something as you’d hoped to be? That’s hardly the stuff of emo music right there. No broken families or jilted lovers or mom and dad telling you to stop dying your hair black with shoe polish, just George Lucas being a stupid douche as usual.

But I swear – if this password doesn’t come to me in ten more tries I’m going to slit my wrists open right on the keyboard and drown this fucking internet in my sweet, steamy blood.

I wonder if Lindsay Lohan has problems like this. Maybe this would be a good day for her. Didn’t get arrested, didn’t get in a car accident, didn’t get sentenced to prison/rehab/hard labor. Merely forgetting her gmail password would probably be the highlight of her day until she snorts a trough of coke and lets a boob quietly slip out of her dress. I’ll bet she hardly even needs gmail anyway – what drug-addled, conspicuously wealthy young adult checks their email? Everyone knows that shit is for nerds and the gainfully employed.

I’ll bet Nicolas Cage doesn’t even know what a computer is.

If you type fast enough it feels like you’re testing more potential passwords. I think in actuality I’m just mangling all attempts at finding the correct password, but I’m instead going to pretend that typing quickly becomes a sort of time travel and hope that eventually I’ll find myself calmly checking my email without actually remembering when or how I entered the correct password. I’ll type myself into the future – a future filled with lengthy titles, never-before-seen text, and attached full-color images. Either that, or I’ll black out because all the blood has rushed to my fingertips.

Dolphins wouldn’t put up with this shit.

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