As mentioned in a previous post, I’m the most uncreative person you’ll ever meet.
All my laptops have names (by “laptops,” I mean every single one I had –and ruinned) in the past. Unfortunately, it’s never the super-dooper original ones like, “King Mark the Three Millionth” or “Spock the Grumpy Alien.” Or normal names like “Frank” and “Eva.”
Nope, it’s always the same. Laptopy.
But today’s tale is tragic. A story so heartbreaking that, if you also have an unhealthy attachment to your computer, you should press that little cross at the top right-hand corner. This story isn’t for you.
It all started when a faint burning smell whiffed through the air. Although occupied with the most beautiful object in the world (Laptopy Number 1) I was a little suspicious. Where was it coming from? Nobody was in the kitchen, and nothing had been fried.
To my dreaded realisation, the burning smell came from my laptop. The charger had black, soot-like marks on it. When I panickingly took the charger out, the burning stench grew stronger. The hole where the charger fitted was burnt.
My life was over.
That last thirty minutes (of battery power) I backed up all my files on my USB. Wiping figurative tears from my eyes, I held the inanimate object close to my heart. Then, after those precious thirty minutes passed, it was gone. Just like that. Like all the memories, the downloaded files, the snippets of writing –like it was all a lie.
And whenever somebody mentions laptops, I instantly grow quiet. My father tried to find other alternatives for computers, but I couldn’t find anything that could remotely compare to Laptopy 1.
My soul and I couldn’t tolerate the loss. I thought we’d never come back from that one.
But one day, while at Joyce Mayne, I found it. After the tragic loss of my laptop, I finally learned to bare my heart to an inanimate object. Dad purchased it for me. It was mine.
And the cycle started again. I didn’t let myself get close to Laptopy Number 2. I suppose, in a way, I could never be the same.
Which is understandable. That loss, the loneliness, the unbearable scene of seeing Laptopy-1 just lying there, useless. It changes people. It changed me.
So there is my tragic story of love and loss. Some people may claim I’m antisocial. I don’t know what they’re talking about.
My heart goes out for all widows. For those who’re grieving after their loved-electronic, remember: there are plenty of laptops in the sea. You just need to find the one that won’t electrocute you. ♥
PS: The title is grammatically incorrect. “Tragic” shouldn’t be an adverb. But I love how “tragically” looks on the computer screen.