Timmy has a very interesting theory about humans.
You know, we are like computers.
In us, there are programmes which are considered good and useful and which everyone should have installed (like "Benevolence", "Honesty" and "Intelligence") and some which are considered bad ("Greed", "Hypocrisy" or "Idiocy") and ought to be removed.
Of course, you can get a virus too, but it's a wee bit different than in computers.
The Specialist's personal belief is that viruses of the human computer exist only in two varieties: "Love" and "Hatred".
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He's always prided himself on being able to keep away from both viruses.
But how he still managed to get infected was beyond that hyper overthinking brain of his.
All that he knows was how it happened.
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First he was presented with a file that looked very pleasing.
A demo to a game he had always wanted to play but could never find.
Then he was stunned. The graphics were breath-taking, the outer look – magnificent. So he started playing it with the certain kind of enthusiasm which he rarely gets. His initially good opinion got better and better as he progressed. Not only was it beautiful, it was intelligent, it was funny in the right moments and solemn where it needed to be.
And his heart started this weird sound, a quickening of some kind, when he got close to it. His veins filled with adrenaline, he got excited and felt as though he had to fight a wild dragon, but instead of scared like he usually was, he actually wanted to fight it.
(All right, maybe he got a little frightened too. Just a teeny tiny bit.)
What he hadn't anticipated was that behind those zeroes and ones that formed such pretty graphics and intelligence and general amazing-ness (great, now he was talking like some uneducated fool), a strong virus of the "Love" kind had been hidden.
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Sad though. 'Cause there is no anti-virus for that.
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He watches the sun play hide and seek in her cotton candy hair and blushes as their eyes meet. Her lips are moving, explaining some theory which he knows to be incredible but which he can't muster to hear her words over her features. He's never had a problem with concentration before but now he finds more and more difficult to pay attention to what she is saying.
It's not like what she says isn't interesting. It's just that, for once, he prefers to examine the contours of her face, which resemble a perfect vector image more than anything.
Then she smiles and it's like the ring of Windows when you turn it on and it feels like music to his ears.
"Hey Timmy— Tiiiiimmy! Hellooo?"
The annoying background noise won't distract him of his objective. He doesn't pay attention to it.
"He's hopeless."
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Slowly, this virus got a hold of the programmes in his system and started tinkering with them.
"Self control" was turned into "stare dreamily into space"; "Eloquence" was lost forever and in its place came "Inarticulateness" (and he couldn't even pronounce the name of the file: it was that bad); "Common Sense" turned into "Do everything for her even if it's the most stupid thing on all planets".
The system went from "Normal" mode to "Lost puppy so in love" mode.
Worst was that he liked it.
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Well, what do you expect? "Self respect" is gone too.