What Some Might Call Magic

The last few days have generally been both productive and pleasant. However, there have also been annoyances. After some consideration I have determined I must have come under the influences of a monkey’s paw.

After starting to sleep on our bed, Una redefined it as her new favourite place. To the extent that after supper – instead of bouncing onto my lap and settling for the evening – she would gather head bunts for a few minutes before heading back into the bedroom, or even not gather head bunts.

While I do not view her curling up on my lap as something she must do, I did miss it. Therefore I wished she would spend more time on my lap in the evenings. Shortly afterwards Hurricane Bertha hit Great Britain, driving the cats indoors.

Una is now spending much more time with me instead of playing outside, but the garden is often flooded and torrential rain threatens even the shortest trip from the house.

On Saturday I noticed a third computer game that I was interested in playing at some point that had minimum specifications well above my relatively old GPU.

As there are plenty of engaging games that will run, several of which I already own, I formulated the merest whim to upgrade next year.

On Sunday afternoon my computer began Blue Screen of Deathing whenever I ran anything that needed Direct Draw or other capabilities of my GPU.

Last week I considered writing a filk of Alanis Morissette’s Ironic featuring actual irony. I fear my focus raised some cyber-tulpa, some virtual d’jinn.

Three days during which Una didn’t sit on my lap.

Three games I couldn’t run.

The pattern of threes is clear: another twisted wish breeds in the spaces between the spheres.

I must discharge it, lest it wax strong in unnatural life at a time of more ill stars.

Drawing on the examples of horror and fairy tale, I do not wish for this threat to be gone; there are too many dark convolutions for that to come out well.

Instead I wish for the power to end it.

DIES MIES JESCHET BOENEDOESEF DOUVEMA ENITEMAUS!

It grows darker.

The forecast predicted storms.

A mighty rumbling.

They are digging up the sewers in the next street.

OGTHROD AI’F GEB’L—EE’H YOG-SOTHOTH ‘NGAH’NG AI’Y ZHRO!

Everything is too bright! I can taste angles!

There are chunky grounds in my coffee.

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