sitting. staring at seventeen inches of life sucking technology. flat and ugly. waiting for numbers. waiting for groupings. waiting. the smell of the engine inside my dell box. smells kind of like the electric racer cars I had as a kid. I loved that smell. now I hate it. It reminds me I suck. every so often a grinding sound comes out of dell and wakes me as I'm floating out the 9th floor window. it reminds me I have a purpose in this shithole. waiting for numbers. once the numbers show themselves and I send them to all the waiting lemmings, will the fuckers stop calling and emailing me? No, they never stop. they'll figure out some other number need and start pestering me again. I sit in my death box waiting. hungry, pale and skinny. weak with boredom. dreaming of races I've done and races I'll do. dreaming of rides with friends. dreaming of fruita. my death box protects me and traps me. I have windows. my box is better than most. Probably because I'm the only one dumb enough to still be here. waiting.