She really wants to like them, truly, though it seems effort can take her only so far into territories that all too often eclipse her own motivations. Two hours later, she’s convinced the internet has morphed into part meme museum, part Urban Outfitters storefront while programmers labor away at changing website colors and trolling Faceplant. (Is what she calls it, though she’s no ranting Luddite.) Four hours later and she’s swearing off drinking because it makes it hard to ignore the jokes that aren’t funny anymore, that really weren’t funny to begin with, shaded as they were with insult and provocation. Six hours later she’s listening to the whiskeyed stumbles of strangers there for a post-bar party and crashspace and eight hours later, she stops bothering to introduce herself.
Ten hours later, she really wants to like them, truly, might if she could be bothered, would if it weren’t for the twelve and the fourteen and the sixteen hours and counting of over and over and over again.