Backwriting 2.1, The oldest thing ever

Homeless terror saves boy

It’s like. I lost my computer the other day, while drinking in and outside a café near my work. It was in a green backpack and stolen. Stolen along with my backpack, which I have not received back. The computer I have. But it will never be the same.

I cleansed my computer with lotion the night I got it back. The night before, I could not sleep until I thought to myself, yes, I will get a replacement. Though I thought it unlikely the company would issue another one, I agreed to go to sleep believing it would.

The next morning, I remembered I felt bad but I could not remember why. The dream I had the night before was just a dream, and this made me feel good, that it was over. But I quickly remembered why I felt bad.

My dad noticed it immediately when he said hi in the mornig. Or maybe he asked how I was. My tone of voice alone clued him in. “why just okay?” he might have said. I lost my computer, I might have said. Maybe I said it was stolen.

The signs I put up said it was lost. See you around. The cop said I was lucky. So did a lot of other people. I guess. I pointed out to my friend, there at the time of the stealing, I never asked for the computer.

Computer had its files erased. Who could have dones that? Mexican guy with a knife, drunk? Doubtful. Homeless guy? Hmmm. Motel owner with his own computer system? Likelier. But fine.

“Knife fight, sleazy motel owner, and the cops” - Elena.

Shine that “Elena” symbol in the sky

Honestly, motel guy wanted me to be there, or the cops, when he busted on the door. He probably got $ for the computer, from either Charles “Bill” Burns or Charles’ “friend,” who may or may not exist. Charles, who told me his name was Bill as we walked over to the motel, has a beard and big holes in his shoes. I gave him five dollars later to buy new ones. He said they cost seven, but agreed five was “a good start,” as I said.

But really, this is about a computer. i’m going to stop punctuating. He led me to the motel and left me half a block from it. He walked away slowly and I couldn’t understand what I was doing, there, going into a motel front office to confront a guy I’d never met about a computer he supposedly bought. For 150 dollars out of which he’d only received 125, according to Charles “Bill” Burns. I am wasting my time. Anyways I got the computer back. The files were mostly erased, all the obbious ones. But he or she or it but likely he had not changed the names that pop up when turning on the computer, fairly obvious indicators I used to show the cops this thing is mine. The sticker, though, was missing. I painstakingly lopped that sticker, of a rat, on top of my machine Monday night, or Sunday. “I want to curl up into a little ball.” - “ah.” “are you really sorry I lost the computer?” - “yes.”

A big shining E in the sky. E for Elena. But did not want to walk all the way back to work. Thank god “Bill” yelled my name. we agreed to call the police and did. But it was too late. The cops has already been called. By the sleazy motel owner. A slight south asian man, balding. Young. Visibly shaken when I saw him next. And mad at me for not staying by his side as he checked the rooms. “I told you him to be there with me. Where is my backpack? My beanie? Actually the beanie is/was not aaaahhh what is mine? “My mother bought the computer.” “I picked up that beanie at a friend’s house I hang out at.” Somone left it there. Leave me there. But yes, body lotion on the console. Rubbed it along the sleek smooth cracks on the shell. Smelled sexy, rubbed it on the black chord so smooth, the power chord. Made love to me.oh oh lost my identity.