SPAM FICTION

This is a cryptic SPAM repository. I have found fragments of FICTION. I have found poetry. I have found secret messages. I have found divinity. I am whole because of the unrequested messages that fall into my inbox. Seek truth. Seek SPAM. But first tell me, why am I wasting my life?

The quoted texts are probably copyright. I recieved them as junk filler in SPAM email, inserted to distract the filters that would otherwise kill the message. Rarely does it work, so I shuffle through the SPAM box and look for gems. Texts are included as editorial exerpts. I editorialize, or otherwise try to interpret their meanings or derivations. Tell me, why am I wasting my life?

We’re all fans of the surreal magic of Harry Potter. Poor Ms. Rowling, however: her published works tend to fall victim to both piracy and — now — SPAM FICTION. Today, it seems, Harry is soliciting the virtues of a magic money making scheme, his tribulations tied to the intangibles of stock tips delivered via email.

whoa!” whispered seamus, and he, dean, and neville put their heads a little closer to hear what apparition felt like. for the rest of the day, harry was besieged with requests from the other sixth years to describe the sensation of apparition. all of them seemed awed, rather than put off, when he told them how uncomfortable it was, and he was still answering detailed questions at ten to eight that evening, when he was forced to lie and say that he needed to return a book to the library, so as to escape in time for his lesson with dumbledore. . braced this time, harry was ready for the apparition, but still found it unpleasant. when the pressure disappeared and he found himself able to breathe again, he was standing in a country lane beside dumbledore and looking ahead to the crooked silhouette of his second favorite building in the world: the burrow. in spite of the feeling of dread that had just swept through him, his spirits could not help but lift at the sight of it. ron was in there . . . and so was mrs. weasley, who could cook better than anyone he knew. . . .m5

I can’t say I know the books well enough to place this passage. Sadly, I think I know more than one person who could. Harry, obviously dropped from the end of yet another misadventure, is winding up his neatly packaged escapades with a step down memory lane. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.