My friend Yuki just sent me an email. I am so sorry that you passed away yesterday, she wrote. How do you feel today?
I didn't think I could get any sicker than I currently feel, but apparently - via the complex subtleties of the English language - I can. Passed out, Yuki, I emailed back. Passed out. I didn't die, although it now feels like I may have done. Small but extremely important difference.
Shit, sorry, she wrote back. Passed on?
Still means dead.
I'm sorry you fell asleep yesterday, she wrote. I'd be sorry if you died too, just so you know.
Which has actually made my hangover feel remarkably better. It's amazing how a little bit of your own death can put things in perspective.
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HOLLY MIRANDA SMALE
Writer, photographer, "rapper" and general technophobe takes on the internet in what could be a very, very messy fight. But it's alright: she's harder than she looks, and she's wearing every single ring she could get her hands on.
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