Sunday, January 22, 2006

The Tragic Tale of a Spurned Suitor

And yet again he rejects me...

He is a large, freakish monster that takes sadistic joy in devouring ideas. I type all night, I come up with the perfect article, I remember the exact phrasing that will explain all the pleasures of the universe, and it is at that fatal moment that he decides to quit, fizzes out and dies. Angrily, I send him stabbing looks with my eyes, willing him to break into myriads of pieces and then reassemble himself so that he is faster, kinder, and more efficient. Of course, he does nothing but continue to drone in his mindless way, an endless zzzzzing noise that informs the other party that no, he is not interested, and would you please go away until it's time for tea?

He wheezes, huffs and puffs while he loads pages. The little green chugger at the bottom of the page slowly, ever so very sl-o-oo-owly fills, the plumbline tips, and just as the page should come into being- presto! I hear a dying gasp, a snorting breath, the last thin sound as he tries to grip- and it is then that the pleasant 'This Page Cannot be Displayed' sign gloomily takes over the screen.

When I feed him a CD, thinking that he will enjoy the musical and artistic satisfaction of hearing the sublime melodies roll off his tongue, he does his best to destroy it. I hear creaking noises, and horrified, realize that you, treacherous friend, have decided to destroy my musical collection. There is a ghastly CRRRR and I realize you have scratched the surface of my brand-new disc. Just as I am ready to weep, I place the CD into a real CD player, only to hear it play back perfectly, with absolutely no stops or skipping. So you take pleasure in pretending to destroy my posessions, eh?

Indeed, at one point in time, he acquired the ability to express certain sounds when I click on the mouse. This means that he is currently drowning every time we minimize a window, as we hear gurgles and gloops of bubbling liquid sloshing about. There are strange animal shrieks and screeches whenever a window is opened, and even though we have long since done away with the fish screensaver, the vestiges of the past remain...

He strongly resents working with more than one program at a time. Imagine how overworked he must feel when I open *gasp* Microsoft Word in addition to *gasp* DavkaWriter! He instantly complains about memory space, the lack thereof, and the fact that virtually, he is dying once again.

He refuses to scan pictures (although he once did) and claims there is a problem with the "connection." What connection? And yet it remains. Depressingly, our phototools are located on the very computer that refuses to scan, while the only scanner that works is connected to a computer lacking in phototools...

He is notorious for telling me about updates and various sorts of antivirus protection, informing me that pages are not secure, stating that Windows Media Player can work in a minimode- and belligerantly claiming it will not turn these functions off even when I click the little box that says 'Please do Not Tell Me This Again.'

The DSL lights enjoy flickering through all the stages of the rainbow in efforts to make me resign myself to the absence of the Internet.

Oh, computer, I love you so, and yet you spurn me, again and again...

(This is not really based on my computer. It's based on the many computers I have known, and who have met their untimely demise, swallowed into the black hole, the yawning vortex that commands them to FREEZE or in other ways contradict their owners.)

5 comments:

Irina Tsukerman said...

That was a GREAT post! It describes so well the troubling, abusive relationships I've had with the various computers in my life!

Anonymous said...

I have one word that will change EVERYTHING, and I mean EVERYTHING, and it's MACINTOSH.

Datingmaster, Jerusalem said...

the drama thickens
where is he when you need him?

Ezzie said...

ARGH!!!!

Sorry, too many bad memories flood to the fore...

Ayelet said...

Oh, Chana! I feel your pain. I've been there. You're not alone.

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