I, Your Computer . . .

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     My curser, my ignition switch, starts my screen jumpin’ as my keyboard rocks and my speakers rumble.  At least that’s what it was like when I was young and foolish. 

Now my high-speed transmission days are done; I am 17 years-old, approaching retirement, and on the cusp of joining AARC. (American Association of Retired Computers)

     My user is a relentlessly stupid technological disaster, who’s still at the lefty-loosy-righty-tighty stage with a screwdriver.  He boots me up, and sends me off into cyberspace to fetch his mail, surf his sites, and dig up all kinds of dirt on his search engine subjects. 

     He yells at me when I don’t spit out the junk he wants fast enough, and sometimes he’ll even beat on my mouse, or curse out my mother-board, but I’ll give him this:  he’s always been smart enough to keep my geek/guru Michael’s number taped to the top left corner of my monitor. 

     When those senior moments come to me, and I just blank out, he calls me names and pulls my plugs, and stomps frantically around the room, but then a couple of deep breaths later, thank heaven, he calls Michael. 

     For years, Michael always had the exact right answer for whatever ailed my tower or monitor hardware, or software, or underware.  Michael is my hero, my wizard, my savior.  Until now, that is . . . now that my upper teens are creeping in.  Now Michael has done a turncoat thing.  He’s actually urging my user to start shopping for a replacement. 

     You’d think after all these years, he’d at least consult with me, figure out what ails me, call in a specialist.  Something.  But no, he only cares about my user.  Next thing you know, he’ll probably be campaigning for my removal to the voc-tech school where kids will autopsy me piece by piece, or send me to some high tech dump where I’ll be scrapped for parts. 

     Ah, but the secrets I hold inside my harddrive will be mine alone forever, to take with me into a life on the other side.  Hmmmmm, could be fun at that!  Maybe I’ll come back as something simple that requires no maintenance . . . like a rock!  Maybe you’re not such a bad guy, after all, Michael.  I might enjoy just hanging out for a few centuries.                               halalpiar

(Wth special thanks for the inspiration from Kathy Alpiar)

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