Written in Ink

My dearest Kinja...

My love. My muse. My sweet comfort during hours that wax long and thin. My cherubic chatterbox chirping throughout the day with the dulcet melodies of news, entertainment, and randomness.

Thou art a balm unto my weary soul. Yet thou art also the truest test of patience. Is love really kind? Is it, truly, slow to anger? Is it slower to anger than these letters I'm trying desperately to type on a pitifully laggy virtual keyboard?

Sweetest, gentlest, fitful Kinja: is it too much to ask to be able to view Gawker Media websites without immediately and repeatedly crashing my browser? I had to caress your hands and offer butterfly kisses no less than ten times before a single page would load long enough to even let me access this "compose post" area. I tap, tap, tap letters on my screen and wait fifteen seconds for them to show up, only to have to stop to correct the multiple spelling errors you have inserted.


Why, sweetest of sweethearts? Why?

Please, my love, favor me once again with your tranquil affections. I implore you.

Love always and forevermore,


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