I'm one of those people that live on my laptop. I work and take online classes, so without my computer I would probably throw myself into a burning lava pit. I got my first laptop as a gift from my dad, when I graduated from high school and entered college. I asked him for anything but a Dell, and guess what I got? Yup. It was a piece of shit, just as I expected.
I used my POS Dell until I couldn't take it anymore. I finally found the perfect excuse to get rid of it- I work in media and I had to switch to a Mac. I gave my Dell to a friend ("PLEASE, take this away from me!") and got a brand-new, shiny MacBook Pro.
My brother has a Toshiba and he loves it- it never breaks, never gets any serious viruses, holds a whole bunch of crap, etc. He swears by the PC and says he'll never get a Mac. There's a constant turf war between the two of us- it's like the Bloods and the Crips lite; only now that we're no longer in the same house I don't worry about him stabbing me in my sleep.
I've been obsessed with my Mac for over a year- there was a perfect marriage between that and my iPod, which was permanently attached to me already. If I didn't have Verizon, I would have been seduced by the iPhone, too. I am a total Apple whore, and I don't even want to join the 12-step. If only I can kidnap an Apple Genius guy and force him to perform for me sexually, the cycle will be complete.
Then, just like with any whore, things began to get messy. I never got the Protection Plan, because I'd already spent so much money on the laptop, and everyone told me that the Mac computers never get any viruses (always use protection, kids!). My iPod started fucking up hardcore- deleting songs, stopping the shuffle randomly, etc. My MacBook started doing some wonky shit that I couldn't even describe. My world, as I knew it, slowly began to unravel.
|Why must you torture me?|
This wouldn't do. I call Apple and am informed that each phone call cost $50. I feel dirty; like I had just had the worst phone sex of my life. I ask if they could make me an appointment at the nearest Apple store- if I'm going to be sodomized, at least let them do it in person. I am then told that I can only make an appointment online. Fine; I can do this myself. I am a strong, capable woman and you will not see me cry, dammit!
I log onto the website using what's left of my beloved MacBook. When asked what product I need help with, I search frantically for the option that says, "my life;" but it is not to be- I finally settle on "Mac." I figure I'll slip the iPod in while I was there.
I get to the store and talk to the Genius guy. He seems pretty damn perky- I wonder if he's ever been dumped by the love of his life, like I had just been. I tell him I'm here for both products, and we get to the iPod first. I tell him what's going on and he lets me know that the iPod only takes iTunes files- which COST MONEY- or music from regular CD's, not burned ones. Also, the number of songs listed really refer to "gigabytes"- so when you reach a certain number of those, songs will disappear. "It's on the website, but you have to look for it," he says. So, my 2,000 song Nano really holds, like, 12 files. I wind up buying a new iPod- a Classic, for 249 bucks.
Ah. Well played, Apple. You are a worthy adversary.
Now that Apple has even more of my money, it's on to my beloved MacBook. He unfastens it like a surgeon carefully opening a body and discovers that it's completely unusable. He tells me that the trackpad is broken and, since my warranty has run out, to fix it will cost $300. Normally the only 300 I'm willing to spend is two hours with Gerard Butler, but this is my life we're talking about. I grab the piece of paper he hands me and sign in blood, and reluctantly agree to wait for his call.
|But we were so good together!|
Fuck you, Apple. Fuck your stupid almost monopoly. Fuck your awesome commercials. Fuck your arresting power of modern technology and the intoxicating presence that it brings. And fuck you for knowing beyond a doubt that I will keep buying your products, and that you have me by the proverbial balls. I hate you, you're abusive, and I will keep coming back.