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the colours in your head


For the love of nerdy Russian hippies...

Just a quick thing to describe the internet room in my school-- it's a typical classroom in this glorious building, with beautiful high ceilings, cracking paint in institutional shades and flourescent lights posing as pretty light fixtures high up on the wall. Seven or so computers line the walls, and there is the big bad momma server computer on a little altar of a desk, flanked by signs in BOLD SCARY RUSSIAN warning you to not even ever THINK of touching ever, THIS MEANS YOU!!!! (apologies for the caps) At least, that's what I think it says, because all I understand is the "Ne", but then the glares the guy gives you are indication enough that this is prohibited. The guy himself is a trip, probably literally-- grey hair carefully swept into the sort of bowl cut that might be ironic were he not a Russian in his fifties, Lennon (not Lenin, hyuk hyuk) glasses, and a large dangly gold hoop. Every time I look at him, it surprises me he doesn't have a weedy little braid poking out of his hair somewhere. He might, I just don't fancy checking. The music he likes to subject us to tends to run the very far gamut from twangy Indian meditation music to even twangier bluegrass. He sits beakily at his MASTER MONITOR and mutters to himself, and looks so cute and defenceless behind his glasses, and is swallowed up by his giant shirts. Jura, I apologise. I've found an even cuter geek than you. I'ma have to marry this guy, if he'll ever tear his eyes away from his screen long enough to talk to me.

Oooh! he just spoke for the first time ever! His voice is just as feeble as his shoulders! I'm in love!


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