Love Fwd'd On

By Chris Vaughan

It wasn't that I felt compelled to admit the hacker; I just felt that people were being unfair to him. Who knew why he wanted to see the contents of my PC screen, and really, if he really wanted to. So I didn't mind. I still don't. Plasma palpations, the song eases odorously among the network cables and I fall into swivel bliss.

Do not accept anything from Boris Souza Fontana. He is a hacker. Aka blondbomber0120@… Aka latelust21@… Aka akaweb@…

So what I thought. I let so many people into this world dedicated to me created by me, scrolls of chat with millions and trillions of words typed typically missing letters, not impotent we know what you mean, they know wot I mean. My life between 9am and 3pm consists of the pinging, the outpouring, and the soft finger blister of so many conversations, pages like faces passing, they say 'The emphasis has always been on bubblin' vibes,' 'The rooms are large, we love the hot tub great showers. Breakfast is Wonderful. … to spend one night each time, but were looking fwd to spending a whole weekend. …'. Sometimes one chat slips into another, so I tell mum her sister should come along to Eastbourne and Ester I love her, Graham I would kill to do what I want to do to Brian but overhears the last lines of a poem I write to Bill and Bill's is cut short at a twat is a twat is a twat. Your seriously eschewed observations are partly true, however eschewed.

So what's so wrong with Boris? Let him.

My first hacking came on Halloween, he must have waited for then. It felt impersonal and like love fwd on. I felt hoaxed not hacked. A big bright pumpkin flashed as my desktop background, and I found out so was Lin’s and Jeremy’s and Sarah’s and boozer1983’s. I wanted to be able to send it back.

Only days later my screen popped when I was falling asleep on the keys halfway through telling Michel he was a retarded spoon when the screen jolted, like a movie reel derailed and resumed at the end credits. Nothing else happened for years. Scars erected on the skin are notes to Boris. Stars elected over the clouds contain him. Everything is in some sense enveloped, oppressed by him. An idea of a person is more attractive than a person. A person without ideas, a face, without facets of derangement that constitute a person, without fault, fervour, without sex, without energy, without obvious indictments of their persona, these people are ideas and made into ideas very easily. Single embryo of an idea can materialise into something more. Boris is more. Boris is somnolent, Boris is enticing and ostracised.

During this interval I searched approx 800,000keywords. I think when talking of the optimal sentence. During this pleasure break, which was full of free investments of love and choc-o-block with the best priced adventures, I affiliated myself with words of popularity and some celebrity of which there were approximately eight hundred thousand and more. When I am verbalising, chatting and shooting the shit I consider the optimised equivalent of each sentence in its profitable form. I rank what people say in the page jerked scale of i-ephermera.

By the time Boris found me again I'd moved to Chatham with a man who knew nothing about computers. He was tech free which made me feel innocent.

So when Boris hacked me this time it felt more deserved, more directed - he was in my eyes a chivalrous megabyte leaping from PC to PC, the silent eloper outrunning the world around me, undoing the tangles and knots and intertwining of the outside life he never saw. I thanked him. I left an excel sheet open:

ME + Thanks -Boredom = Gratitude to You (Formula unknown).

I thought he would appreciate the format.
But Boris is the Virus probably typed Sarah099. Whatever, there's someone there doing something. They never see you though they never hear, see or know you. Neither does he though. She laughed out loud — lol — but she didn't. Not that I'm aware. Free sale of her smiles were high value and free of the winning, celebrity buying power to shop for smiles like hers, the sex determines more than the free market of gestures it enhances, enlarges, and enlightens the cosmetic appeal.

Are you there?
HuloOOooOooo??
Boris you about???
Boris you a person or are you a virus but either way are you there????

Boris, under his least used alias cumslums@… interrupted me playing a Free Bingo game to advertise a Free Nudes site — Cum Look Good Girls and Boys for Gypsy Orgy in Ukrainian Village
I did and thought Boris must be short of cash. They were just teens in a forest fucking. Sometimes new participants emerged from a vehicle hung with tapestries made to look like a wigwam but which looked like a Volvo mounted with a Styrofoam carriage, which is what it was. I’d made worse films but never with such misaimed creative intent. I e-mailed all Boris Souza Fontana’s.
Boris yo need money? I have money.
Do you accept ££?

It came to nothing. Hack me. Pollute my screen with those nudes it was better than nothing.
Another month and the computer crashed. The paroxysm I knew was coming. I am the death of that machine.

Do you not love me? I slipped into Geoff’s pixme.com chat screen, Me? No not you.
Boris? It was for him only but by now I didn't mind who saw it.

So many viruses have passed through this PC that it’s slow, freezes under fragile touch — it’s new but damaged already. Perhaps even if Boris left the threads of a new virus on the machine it would be like a star exploding and we wouldn't ever know it had ever happened. Perhaps he is a nova though, seen eating omnivorously at the cosmos. The screen popped, in the same way, I remember it exactly — the way it swayed like heavy cargo on a weak blow-up dingy.

My PC is a weak dingy. I'm no challenge for Boris. Are you there? I'm free.

© Chris Vaughan 2009

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