It’s not you, it’s me.
I want other things from life.
I want a working laptop.
In fact, I’d like my less than six months old, top spec Macbook to not have fried its logic board three times since Christmas. I know you’re oh so sorry it’s happened, and especially to me, since obviously I am your absolutely most favorite customer in the world. And I bet it sure is uncommon for one of your super duper image-of-perfection gadgets to behave so out of character. And yes, I get that you can’t replace it, or refund me, or do anything for me, really, but
bullshit me fix it, again and again, and every time it will work like magic, and everyone will be holding hands, happily singing the happy happy joy joy song.
For a couple of weeks.
And then we’re back to carbonized laptop guts and renewed friendships with your customer support people, who really are lovely, don’t get me wrong, lovely and oh so very very sorry, that I almost feel bad for putting them through this again and again. I am all of a sudden having to deal with this mix of post laptop depression and a truly oppressive sense of guilt, and I’m doing it badly.
It’s got to end.
I don’t get why you don’t just come clean to me. I mean, I’m a big girl, I can take it. If my sneaky laptop has got an affair with one of your repair guys, and fries itself on purpose to feel their strong, manly touch every other week, well, you can tell me. I’ll understand. I’ll even be the bigger person and let it all go, this wild, exciting, nearly six months old relationship with what I though would be the one. I’ll bluntly kill all my dreams of happily ever after, and will find comfort scratching another’s touch pad.
It will be tragic, mind you. Dumped on Valentine’s Day. I’ll surely waste months and months out of what little remains of my youth on a pure ice cream diet, my only comfort being
Netflix’s romcom selection (nope, no laptop, no Netflix) the sound of my neighbor’s vacuum cleaner, a constant, heartbreaking reminder of what my Macbook used to sound like as it died yet another one of its flaming deaths.