(no subject)
If asked a matter of months ago, Eduardo would have had a good idea of how he expected to spend his twenty-third birthday. It would've been spring break, he'd have flown out to Palo Alto and crashed at Mark's for the week, and their differences having supposedly been set aside, there would have been some sort of party and Mark might have even taken a night off from coding and it would have been just like the old days, the evenings they all spent back in the Kirkland dorm. Of course, even if he were still at home now, that would no longer be an option. Everything got turned on its head the day he showed up here, and though he's done his best, in the time since, to keep going and not let it get to him, it's hard not to think about how much things have changed at a time like this. For a while, it had all seemed perfect, better even than he could have dreamed. Now, that's all been reversed. It isn't as if he's gotten nothing in showing up here; some of the people he's met, he can't wrap his head around how good they are, present in a way he's never been accustomed to. He's gained another year, too, despite having lost a month upon his arrival. Even so, the fact remains that, after having been written down to a decimal of a percent in the company he helped start, he's now an Economics major in a place with no economy, who didn't even get to finish his degree, and has little more than a pet chicken to show for himself.
Said chicken is, at present, in the pen in front of Eduardo's hut, something he'd deemed a necessity given the size of the cage it showed up in, the same one he'd spent a week carrying it around in back at Harvard. Eduardo is pretty sure that this is an incredibly anti-climatic way to be turning twenty-three, but maybe that's for the best, to let it pass without notice. He had a class in the morning and there's another later tonight, but for now, he's taken to sitting outside with a stack of business magazines salvaged from the shelf, skimming through them as Sean clucks quietly in the background. That he's looking for something, anything about Facebook is a fact he guesses would be obvious, but he has no intention of admitting it, not really even to himself. It crosses the line from anti-climatic to pathetic, but his old life isn't one he can so easily let go of.
It's sometime in midafternoon, another magazine set aside, that he sighs and decides to give up for a while, turning instead to the chicken, wandering around innocently. "What do you think?" he asks, hand reaching in as if to beckon the chicken closer. The question is really to himself, but it's better to feel like he's directing it to something else. "Is this an all-new low?" As if in response, Sean's beak sinks into his palm, and he lets out a startled hiss of pain, quickly drawing his hand away before he can be further injured. "Shit," he swears, wincing as he examines the bite. It isn't deep, at least, but it still hurts. He casts the chicken a brief, wary glance, suddenly wondering if naming it Sean Parker was a little too apt. If the real Sean were a chicken, it would probably want to do some sort of damage, too. "If this is some sort of grudge about the forced cannibalism thing, you need to get over it already."
[Eduardo on his birthday, and one formerly cannibalistic chicken. His hut is just off the south beach, and near the path. Timed to Saturday afternoon, it's a fine time to meet him, ST/LT more than welcome, etc.]
Said chicken is, at present, in the pen in front of Eduardo's hut, something he'd deemed a necessity given the size of the cage it showed up in, the same one he'd spent a week carrying it around in back at Harvard. Eduardo is pretty sure that this is an incredibly anti-climatic way to be turning twenty-three, but maybe that's for the best, to let it pass without notice. He had a class in the morning and there's another later tonight, but for now, he's taken to sitting outside with a stack of business magazines salvaged from the shelf, skimming through them as Sean clucks quietly in the background. That he's looking for something, anything about Facebook is a fact he guesses would be obvious, but he has no intention of admitting it, not really even to himself. It crosses the line from anti-climatic to pathetic, but his old life isn't one he can so easily let go of.
It's sometime in midafternoon, another magazine set aside, that he sighs and decides to give up for a while, turning instead to the chicken, wandering around innocently. "What do you think?" he asks, hand reaching in as if to beckon the chicken closer. The question is really to himself, but it's better to feel like he's directing it to something else. "Is this an all-new low?" As if in response, Sean's beak sinks into his palm, and he lets out a startled hiss of pain, quickly drawing his hand away before he can be further injured. "Shit," he swears, wincing as he examines the bite. It isn't deep, at least, but it still hurts. He casts the chicken a brief, wary glance, suddenly wondering if naming it Sean Parker was a little too apt. If the real Sean were a chicken, it would probably want to do some sort of damage, too. "If this is some sort of grudge about the forced cannibalism thing, you need to get over it already."
[Eduardo on his birthday, and one formerly cannibalistic chicken. His hut is just off the south beach, and near the path. Timed to Saturday afternoon, it's a fine time to meet him, ST/LT more than welcome, etc.]