I write this on the stitched together remains of two ruined laptops, beaten things, one dead entirely and the other siphoning power from the wall through its dead brother’s dangerously frayed cord. I tried to fix the fancier of the two by removing all of the screws and prying it open, that I might blow vigorously and check the “Connections”? I replaced the screws and found no improvement. I took the screws back out, figuring maybe things had sort of expanded over time and it might work better without them. Still broken.

I don’t blame my computer. It wasn’t a failure of software, or purpose, or mechanical surrender. I dropped it on the bathroom floor a good six times and by the end it was held together with packing tape, chip clamps, and the last embers of good will that remained between us. It did not die, it was murdered, along with my collection of purloined comics, several rough drafts of questionable promise, and my freshly revised resume that could be called into action at any moment.

The same day the back wheel of my bike decided to stop turning for a variety of reasons. You had one job, wheel, and your laziness has dammed the whole venture. I am approaching the point where the only trustable machines in my life are my dragging sled and the writing slate that I bought for a Ginger prostitute to smash over my head, Anne of Green Gables style [1]. Still, if a plucky orphan from lobster town can rebound and become a school teacher, surely I can persevere.

 

[1] She refused on grounds of literary principle and we parted as friends.