Fame would ruin you, Prophet.

Five people chipped in
to buy me a new laptop for Christmas.
It's the most expensive gift I've ever received.
I'm still getting used to the flat keyboard
and trying to avoid grazing the mouse rectangle
with my thumbs while typing, sending the cursor
to previous paragraphs.
It sure is fancy and a hell of a lot faster
than the eight-year-old desktop dinosaur
("Dude, I got a Dell forever ago!")
that my mom gave me when I went away
to college.

But I, the lonely creature of habit that I am
still haven't turned that humming beast off yet.
The loud whir of the tower's dust-filled fan
helps sing me to sleep on nights such as this.
It'll take some time to wean myself off of the
comfort that the familiar drone's given me
for what feels like ages, and rightfully so.
It's hard to say goodbye, even when it's best.

I lay here in bed pecking away at this
contraption on my hairy belly, scroll back down
to where the words should be forming
and continue on my miser-merry way
(short i sound there, of course)
as I have a thousand times before.
This one's almost over; I can feel it.
One develops a sense for such things.

After I'm done here, done rambling for the day
like I'm promising myself to do more religiously
if for nothing but the sake of my lukewarm passion
I will shut this thing down and reach for the book
that a rare, true friend gave me as a belated Christmas
gift this evening. It's a book on famous writers
and their cocktails of choice. It's a book on two
of my favorite pasatiempos. It's a book with a sincere
inscription that I don't know you well enough to share.
And though the price is clearly printed on the dust jacket
it's the best damn gift I've received in as long
as this tired, jumbled mind can remember.

Thanks, Boss.
Don't let 'em get you down.