My PC Desktop
Dear Dead Computer,
I still don't know how you got so fucked up and died on me. But after the last few weeks of mourning, I really don't care. You left for no good reason, and too soon. I'm angry as hell and don't really give a damn that you're gone. I'm only mad because you were convenient, and getting my new computer was a gift I didn't deserve. Peace out, you selfish jerk. You were the worst.
I should say thanks. Thanks for not being awesome or cool or acceptable in any way. Thanks for lasting less time than "Cop Rock". You suck so fucking bad it makes me want to kick you inside your robot Tron face for being such a terrible, terrible, jerk of a bitch poor excuse for a computer. I'll only miss you for sentimental reasons (none of which being your operating system, functionality, stability, or design. Those were all complete and total shit.) I'll miss you for all those great folders we shared together, and the little things we had like MS Paint and Friday night defragging sessions. R.I.P. you stupid fucking bastard. In the end, you finally went Corky on me. I guess it's like the song says...life goes on.
But in this case, it will go on without you. If there is a computer heaven up there, I really hope you don't get to go. If you or one of those blue shirted jawas at Best Buy that sold you to me gives me back my 1100 American dollars, maybe we can talk about being friends or roommates again. Until then? Rot in digital Hades, fallen one.
I don't know what to say to start this. I feel like Doogie Howser except without the thoughtful last sentence coming up any time soon. Sorry, computer. I'm no Neil Patty Harris and you're no Apple IIE.
But wait....what if you were an Apple IIE, how rad would that be? Old is the new new, you know.
Let's imagine for a moment you were in fact just that. Not an actual Apple IIE, but a jacked up, nerded out Mac Pro rocking an old Apple modified desktop casing that just made you look like one. A Billyburg Trojan Horse, if you will. Just imagine it.
If you were cool enough to be that retro, I know for a fact you wouldn't live in the trend-deaf slums amongst the proletariat hordes like me. Not at all, my good sir. You my friend are much too awesome and/or super cool for a fate as boring as mine.
If you were a refurbished Apple IIE instead of what you really are (a remarkably handsome, sleek lap-sized robot that serves up nerd fuel to me on a daily basis in exquisite fashion, compliments of the sheer classiness inherited from your father, the present day turtleneck emperor and future S.R. Hadden from Contact-level billionaire weirdo, Mr. Steve Jobs), I'd wager you 20 of your lasers to 100 of my synapses that the rest of your life would be spent tethered to the wall of some frown mongering macro-hipster, imprisoned in a fortress of pessimism forever, banished to extinction like Zod and his girlfriend and mentally retarded cousin in Superman 2.
There you would sit, perched like a giant owl, calling forth the ghosts of Silicon Valley only to mock them with your Reagan-era camouflage. All the while flaunting your 2.66 gigahertz dual core processors like blinged-out Silicon dubs, riding dirty in the face of your forefathers. A slap from the future's hand to the face of the past, calling out all those landfill occupying ancestors for being the mark ass busters they truly are. I see you there, casting judgment on the world from atop some small desk fashioned out of an old Tokyo street bench (the one your cooler-than-all-living-humans owner procured from his sketch-ball Otaku office mate last year as a consolation prize for being the unwitting victim of his category 5 Man-Crush drunken kiss. A gift so lavish and difficult to obtain and transport here that its mere existence makes everyone who hears about it become noticeably uncomfortable and eager to leave the room at once.)
I smile thinking about you sitting there, waiting like a giant one-eyed square cyclops quietly over-clocking your genius enhanced trust fund processors in the proper Feng Shui approved nook of your master's douche dojo smack dab in the middle of whatever fucking neighborhood the currently ruling Brooklyn hipster swarm is located.
Then I see your owner return home, his hands full of cigarettes and ironic keys and various other boosted schwag bits from the Ratatat listening party he just attended and subsequently informed his tweeps about in the cab ride home. And...oh no! Sucks for you! He's with that girl who everyone thinks is an asshole! Not the cool, squeaky one, the other one that smells like gin and looks like a duck. You wish you could unplug yourself whenever she goes on and on and on, fluttering her eyes while discussing her design portfolio and lamenting the lackadaisical funk hanging over the current artistic climate of the New York scene. I bet you curse your robot God and tell yourself how much she sucks under your computer breath whenever she comes over. I can't believe you put up with her. Honestly. Besides Denise Cosby, Pat Benetar, and Al Pacino, who else wears sweaters and motherfucking leg warmers in the middle of July? Let's not beat around the issue. She's very stupid.
I'll spare you the rest of the gritty details, computer. Let's just say it starts to get kind of gross when they put the "sexy" Ipod on (not the hot yoga/pilates nano, the touch with the case that looks like Dr. Zaius) onto the custom Kid Robot sound dock to pre-sexify the room before their sexiness gets sexy. If only you could blush, Mr. Computer. Once the Minor Threat/Sigur Ros mash-up starts to roll and they commence with their awkward climbing on one another, things start to get a little bit, well...you know.
But after that, during the inevitable post coitus refractory period, they sit down in front of you and share a cigarette. Content and completely unapologetic about blinding you with their nakedness. Just sitting there, wailing on a Newport like a couple of train hobos in love, rumbling onward into the west. (Minus the harmonicas, pants, and personalities you'd usually find in that situation.)
It's probably grossing you out thinking about this, Mr. Computer. It's making me feel weird just talking with you about it. I'd tell you to leave this hypothetical scenario, but where would you go? You can't close the one big black eye you have as hard as you try. For the next hour at least you'll have to sit through a few G.G. Allin videos and a seemingly endless wave of Facebook page visits, celebrity Tweeterati reports, and rounds Farmville mining via the free WI-FI courtesy of the pro-barter Communist lesbian magic shop downstairs.
I guess what I'm saying is, you look like an asshole pretending to be something you're not. So don't ever even think of changing. I like you just the way you are.
In closing, I'll say that I really love you, Mac. Please don't ever leave me. I'd hate to have to sell you off in these economic times only to see you end up in the hands of people like them. Brooklyn has enough Macs. You belong right here.
Love always and forever,
Here's what I think we look like together: