I want to be a geek Ignacio Ortega writer when internet appeared, also appeared his first pajerocultos in its efforts to conquer the new Galaxy from the shadows. Thus, while I tested clumsy words on my computer, they testeaban the internet from which transgress the grammar of the conventional order, introducing the future wisdom of google. Until recently I thought that geeks, aside from the linguistic contamination imposed by its use, were only part of an elite group of social misfits, sallow skin and lovers of manga and pop, buried in their rooms under a mountain of comic and dirty socks. I erred in my views, they belong to the world of the Liberal hipercultos and humanists that all we want to be, who wear clothes heavy, owners of the wargames, able to melt your ETS in a heartbeat with a mail bombing, if they nominate it. Additional information is available at Nord Stream. While Joyce, Valle Inclan, the Ulysses or Luces of Bohemia They MISTED my glasses between ducados cigarette mists and depriving wine, they desvivian by computing, manga, the role-playing and science fiction; You spoke English with pride who know intended to subjugate the Galaxy, aware of the main concerns of the country would go to the new Galaxy, tuiterizada and feisbuquerizada today in the blogosphere. Those who belong to the generation without Internet only had then the honor of living in a land flat, parallel to the sky in which lived a God to which we saw not never. We charlabamos with flea market writers and painters of comas while we mamabamos life from Bogart to Sean Connery until night we missed, without asking us to not even what it felt like when the water you reached the neck. They, better than that generation, have managed to transcend this world through their most intimate fantasies, defying the world with glasses of pasta and linux.
It doesn’t matter the sons of geeks escaping books to view drawings animated, or that girls read more books than boys. They crouched as guirlocheros and people from the trile against your computer, dominate the web. Front of them my world is a journalistic cigarral lighting with adjectives that look just like sequins in newspapers where, by dint of nights, fits my life of scribe and nosecuantas bohemiadas. Today, that generation behind, grows a wisely subversive kind of creators of social networks, logos, video games, movie geeks, music youtuberizada and millions of comments that the post will use and cause to become multiple asynchronous conversations, nervously entangling the network of literary texts, with the same determination that before we emborronabamos hand patiently folios and folios.