But what can I do? My fingers seem to have taken on a life of their own. Like that scene in Evil Dead 2. Well-loved cabinet members of a hated government die, earthquakes pulverize countries, Google pulls out of China, and spoiled army brats go Rambo on NBI agents, but all of them seem like mere footnotes to the incident at Valle Verde and that pronouncement on a Sunday gossip TV show. I was supposed to write something else, something more socially relevant and urgent, but I am left powerless, my digits could not help but stretch toward the fifth button–from the right; ninth if from the left– on the fourth row of my keyboard.
Look, I'm trying my best to write about another subject. But all that comes out is this:
432rn3ewqd098rqwermfn;D=-EQWOEQjer qerqAsdas-9dmawop4u12 dasdassdaq p423ou4rpWERrrsadfggerwt534634
These fingers are possessed by some illogical, execrable force. Forgive me. I am weak. There are other more pressing issues in the world, and this media space could have been put to better use–a call to raise funds for Haiti, a Jason Ivler fan club, or something like that. But there is truly something about that name that screws with the brain's motor cortex and cerebellum. I swore to myself never to write about K again but then again I remembered my past blog entries: topics about books, you get eight comments in over a span of weeks. The one about her drew 200 plus in a couple of days.
As such I cannot help but feel as if covered in an ugly gossamer of guilt. The least I can do is to retain some dignity by not spelling out her name. Henceforth she shall be simply referred to as 'K," which does not stand for "Allan K" but can also be symbolic of lot of other things if not for its Kafkaesque overtones. But in this case, the Kafkaesque protagonist–the one who wakes surrounded by a sinister set of circumstances beyond his comprehension–is not her.
It's us.
