I got a new MacBook.
After 6 and a half years of listening to what sounds like men in steel capped boots running up and down stairs to retrieve files in real-time; I have decided it is time for a computer upgrade.
Can I afford it? Probably not, but I have an amazing skill that enables me to twist the circumstances of any purchase, legitimate, or otherwise in my brain until it is totally justified, to the point of necessary.
Hence the Bison on my lawn.
A Woman Scorned...
The problem is, my old PC houses a shit-load of archive material. Most of it is junk, but the hoarder in me cannot bear to part with it in case one day I wonder where the picture is I made in ‘Paint’ of Obama sodomising kittens while John Key looks on, enchanted.
So the old girl (I shall call her Jennifer Aniston. ’Janiston‘) is a constant presence in my lounge. It is unnerving. Out of respect to her, I try to downplay the fun I am having on my sleeker new mistress, but my efforts to stay cool are thwarted by the feature that allows me to take photos of myself- in front of the Eiffel Tower. And then make it look like an Andy Warhol original. Amazing.
Janiston is blinking back the computer tears as she fondly recalls my excitement when I first bought her.
Janiston feels stupid for ever thinking our love would last longer than six-and-a-half-years. The sales guy at Harvey Norman said our marriage wouldn’t last the distance. He gave it three years, tops. He even talked me into an extended warranty.
She got cocky at the three-year mark and assumed I would keep her forever. That the sentiment would win on the day. That functionality was not the only feature I looked for in a computer.
Call me shallow, but it is.
Things got boring and excruciatingly slow, so I had to spice things up a bit. Janiston was trying to teach me the art of Zen. I guess I was not open to said lessons.
Karmically, I guess I am doomed to be replaced by a newer model in late life. And I will have no one else to blame. It will be my own cold-hearted fault.
Janiston will laugh at me; possibly spit her virus ridden, old-computer saliva into the open wound of my heart, infecting me with the viruses she caught from the midget-porn-watching sins of boyfriends past.
But for now, I will relish the honeymoon period of my new romance as Janiston slowly poisons herself with her toxic feelings of jealousy and resentment.
Sure, it’s a bit awkward, living under her hateful glare, but as long as she doesn’t have sex with my boyfriend, then drive a stiletto into his skull, I don’t really care.
