Computer Sorcery

I don't know why I even bother, in many of my posts, to mention exactly where I am, as I sit quietly, process my thoughts and type them out as ingelligebly as possible. Nearly all of my previous posts have been made from some computer belonging to AB-Tech, since it's quite impossible for me to keep this blog directly from home. In the log cabin there's always somebody, whether it be one of my brothers or my dad, constantly glancing over my shoulder when I'm working at the computer. It's pretty weird in our house, how computers, as well as all other sorts of reasonably up-to-date technology such as cell phones and international calling cards, are viewed and revered in an almost magical kind of sense. And yet at the same time, the boys ruthlessly screw up our Internet service by watching hundreds of viral videos at night while the rest of us sleep. Those little bastards! When Dad wakes up in the morning and goes to check the status of his WWII items on eBay, many times the computer is fairly broken with the past attempts of downloading bits and pieces of stupid erotic Japanese animation. The highly idiotic and rather badly drawn series called Hello, My Concubine, which is one of my oldest brother's favorites, is probably the worst for sending killing viruses to our computer.

Computers just aren't very safe. That's something else I shouldn't even bother to mention, since you hear it being said on the Channel 6 news in quick succession every day, and because of that must be true. However, it's not the alleged computer stalkers and crazy people I'm so afraid of these days, when it comes to computers and high-speed Internet. It's my own parents which I fear the most. It's horrifying, how even though my dad barely even knows how to send an e-mail to a friend, he has the knowledge and skills of a dangerous hacker. I'll never forget (nor forgive) the two or three different times he and his brother (who's now dead, by the way, thank goodness) somehow hacked into my old e-mail account and printed out about three hundred and fifty pages of e-mails I'd send over the course of the last three or so years to different friends I have across the world, as well as in America, too. At first they did it as a type of sick prank. But afterwards my dad used the most intimate things he read in those hundreds of e-mails to blackmail me with later, in a lot of different circumstances, and that was by far one of the most horrible things he's ever done to me. I thought the shame and pain would never end, though in time it did, exceedingly slowly. That's still not to say that I've completely gotten over the effect of it now, though. My dad should have never hacked into my e-mail account. He should have never used my own typing to blackmail me, and he should have never shown the e-mails to my grandfather.

It's because of my dad that Jesse calls me a whore so often today as a hasty insult whenever we're fighting. The boy probably only learned the meaning of that word a year or two ago, when the scandal concerning my other brother and his ex-girlfriend was still very much afoot. And it hurts me so much inside...I've told Jesse time and time again that he is allowed to call me anything in the world but that, or any word related to that, because that particular accusation is the absolute farthest thing away from the truth about me. I'm probably the most chaste girl in all of Asheville. Jesse has no right whatsoever to tell the world that I'm some kind of harlot. Oh, and Jesse's way too young to be talking like that, anyway; he's only about fifteen years old, or maybe sixteen, I really have no way of knowing. He's learned the word "whore" from my mom, from hearing her say it so much. Mom probably originally learned the word from various Republican Baptist preachers in her childhood. So, all in all, I suppose I lay the worst of the blame on Mom, and not my youngest brother, despite his anger and problems.

Or maybe I should try to cut Mom a little slack for once, and just blame the evil Repblicans and preachers. But even then, the Republicans and preachers would have most likely learned the word from the Bible, in all those passages when it talks about Mary Magdalene as a whore, and Samson's Delilah, and Jezebel, and all those other poor, misunderstood Jewish girls.

When it all comes down to it, I think the safest thing to blame accusations of harlotry on are humanity's awful insistant prudishness. Most prostitutes work as prostitutes for good and valid reasons, anyway, such as Fantine's reason in Victor Hugo's Les Miserables.