The Reality Curve

"Oh, God," she said, sniffing my drink.  "Vodka for breakfast?  Really?"
     "Get your nose out of there.  And go away.  I'm trying to work."
     She peered at the laptop screen as I waited for the inevitable recriminations.
     "You call it work, I call it aversion therapy.  What happened to the last two parts of that other thing you were writing?"
     "In process.  Or progress.  One of the two.  Have you seen my MP3 player?"
     "Why?  Have you decorated it with my nail varnish again?"
     This clearly wasn't going to end, at least not pleasantly.  Surprisingly, though, she came back with something helpful.  "I think it's still plugged into that cheapo speaker dock thing of yours in the kitchen."
     "Thanks.  You know I can't cook without music, right?"
     "Right.  Are you reminding me of that for a reason?"
     "Possibly.  I'm a reasonable man."
     "No.  You're not.  What the Hell are you writing, anyway?"
     I scanned the text I'd already typed, looking for clues.  Questions demand answers, however painful.
     "I'm not sure.  I keep thinking about Chuck Lorre's vanity cards at the end of each Big Bang Theory episode.  This isn't like that, at all, but something about the way broadcast media counteracts authorial intention...that's significant.  It's even worse on this side of the Atlantic.  E4 show the episodes, but often split the screen at the end to promote whatever tragic bilge they're showing next, so the vanity cards get squashed.  They're impossible to read anyway, given the nanoseconds they're on screen for.  The whole thing is a shout-out to people who download the show, and have the chance to freeze-frame the fuckers.  Or at least buy the DVDs."
     She stared at me, fascinated.
     "You just said all that.  Out loud."
     "You're impressed.  I can tell."
     "Actually, I'm wondering what solipsistic crap you're going to come out with next."
     "Then read the blog."
     Unexpected defensiveness - a rare moment, so I immediately cherished it:
     "I do, and I will.  But I'll need half a bottle of Chardonnay inside me before I can appreciate it."
     I typed another five lines.
     "Vodka's better."
     "I can't handle spirits, you know that."
     "Except gin."
     "Yeah, with eighty per cent tonic in it.  Oh, and I had some Pimms last month - you didn't know about that!"
     I smiled at her.
     "Alcopops have made a comeback.  Good to know."
     Impasse.  But hardly a draw.  She'd wandered off into the kitchen, and I suddenly realized that I'd totally failed to find a free MP3 of Are You A Ghost by B*Witched.  If you need reasons to hate the Internet, look no further...