My phone died.
I’ve run out of things to do. I was actually so desperate to feel the liberation of the outside world that I went to a coffee shop that I dislike with a burning passion. During this excursion I endured such events as fending off an older gentlemen who reeked strongly of dated cologne and claimed he was “trying to get over his shyness with girls” (I’ve got news, buddy: You’re 54 and it’s called pedophilia).
Furthermore, the only reason I made this trip in the first place was to find a power outlet to plug my phone into, but felt that I should purchase a drink. I grabbed a can of Jones Cream Soda (I don’t even drink pop) stood at the counter to pay for five minutes (remind me why I’m here again) then ended up dropping $1.72 for 12 ounces of tainted caffeine (I really dislike this place).
Alas, I am sitting in a parking lot at an undisclosed location, trying to pick up a wireless signal. It isn’t looking promising. A quick look at the available networks tell it all:
All hope was but lost as I unsuccessfully attempted to connect to the only network that was not password protected.
Thanks for nothing, Bradicus 5000. In the words of your neighbor’s network, ‘fuckyou.’
Onward, to find a signal. The only question remaining is, while most of the network names leave no room for mystery (one can only conjure up an image of “MexicanCandy” in their mind with little room for error), what on earth does ‘CDR’ stand for? My only speculation is a typo, and it should actually read “CCR” for Creedance Clearwater Revival.
I think we might be on to something here.
approximatelyes.com 