IPv6 Day: The Morning After
Thursday, 09 June 2011 12:20
The weight of my right wrist resting on my throbbing temple woke me from restless slumber. A sliver of light oozed from behind smoke-stenched curtains. She lay next to me. It was one of those mornings. Toggling quickly through the memory banks I attempted to piece together the events of the previous evening, and fast, I had to figure out who she was before she awoke, but my brain cycled like some outdated disk-array and me needing NAS STAT!
It had been IPv6 Day. Now, the morning after, I asked myself, "What, in the name of all that's holy, have I done!" Except, I whispered it, because I didn't want to wake her, whoever she was, up. I can talk to myself loud. Sometimes. People find it off-putting and this works to my advantage, when people think you're crazy they expect less out of you. Over-promise, under-achieve, that's my mott-...wait, check that, reverse it.
Where were we?
Coyote Town. The Morning After. I slowly slid my left wrist from behind her neck, she stirred, I held my breath. The sound of a hotel maid's cart rattling down the hallway left muffled bumps on our pillows yet nary enough to thrash the shocks. She slept still. Think, man, think, what did you do last night?!
IPv6 Day...it all started with such good intentions, it was going to be a party, celebrating something that needed to be done. Why not, right? Then things got out of hand. The IPv8 joke was a wee-bit funny; however, you add enough Grey Goose to any multi-vegetable tomato-based product and you're bound to lose supposed health benefits. There's a metaphor in there somewhere.
I had to get out of that room.
Searching for my shoes at the foot of the bed, I stabbed myself with one of her stiletto heels. Egads, she coulda stuck a pig with that thing, then hung it to bleed out on the other. The faint light reflected off something on the dresser. Between the television and an overflowing ashtray sat, (I couldn't believe my good fortune!) a nametag! (It merited two exclamation points.) Clutching the plastic like gold I read the words: "Ipsala Pasadoble IV". My joy migrated to fear. Ipsala. Fear turned to terror and asked the way to the restroom. Nausea overwhelmed me. I swallowed hard and looked for my shoes.
Stumbling, I shoved a sockless foot into my left Italian loafer, the good one. I'd kicked a crappy old Cisco box on the tradeshowfloor the day before, in a fit of pique. Careless hubris. I'd need a cobbler, but more pressing matters weighed heavy. My exit. To the door, post haste! Sacrificing socks and skivvies, I bolted and as the lock did the same behind me, I heard her mumble my name. The faint hum of flourescent lighting rang in my ears as I ran the hallway, ran from IPv4 as fast as my greasy feet could carry me.