Dear Mac,
They told me to use writing to relay my emotions, but using this old PC makes it harder and harder to forget what we went through. I wish I could forget.
Looking at it now, it all seems so simple.
I was sitting at my desk, feet propped up on my bed frame working on that Shakespeare paper that was due a couple of weeks ago—yeah, you know, the one you helped me to take notes on and outline. Sure, I was stressed, but I was making progress. It was a cold day and I had no reason to do anything but work on this paper in my apartment. It was just like any other Monday afternoon and things were under control…
But the worst is yet to come.
When your screen flickered in purple and black lines I thought it was a joke. I mean, after everything we’ve been through together—essays, blog posts, Facebook updates, articles, Skype sessions, and that one time we spent an emotional evening together listening to the “Les Miserables” soundtrack on Spotify on repeat until I’d finished studying for my English exam. I never thought you’d be the one to turn your back on me when I needed you most.
Why’d you have to go and lock me out when I let you in?
You, Mac, are one of the few who know my deepest, most personal secrets: my Facebook password, my mother’s maiden name, the name of my first pet (OK not my actual first pet, but the first one that didn’t live in a bowl and die after 2 weeks), even my middle-school AIM screen name. I opened up to you, but I guess those late nights spent stalking that girl from my sophomore year English class or beating my best score on Solitaire were all just a game to you.
Did you have to do this? I was thinking that you could be trusted.
I’d never felt so betrayed! I mean, who does that? I’ve spent countless hours with you between taking notes in Astronomy freshman year and emailing my grandparents on the weekends. I guess the hardest part is I’ve never had to face heartbreak like this. I thought I could deal with the bumps in our relationship, but this is the last thing I expected from you. How can I love again after this?
You were just gone and gone, gone and gone.
You didn’t give me a warning: no spinning rainbow wheel, no noise alter, no chance to save our relationship or anything we’ve spent the past two years working on. No amount of coaxing or rebooting would bring you back and I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. Was it my fault? Was I the one to blame for this sudden, inexplicable loss of communication? I don’t think so.
Baby, now we got problems and I don’t think we can solve ‘em.
The first time it happened, I thought I could salvage what was lost. I took you to the shop, signed you over to professionals with the hopes that we’d be reunited in a few days once and for all. But it’s been three times in a week: If three different experts can’t figure it out, no one can.
You were all I wanted, but not like this.
I keep thinking back to the summer before college. I knew I’d fall in love with you the moment I laid eyes on your sleek, silver cover and crystal clear screen. We had such a bright future together and we celebrated that first night with YouTube videos of cute animals and professional diving stunts. At that time, I thought we were invincible. We’d take on every coffee shop up and down the east coast—you sitting proudly on the wooden counter across from the barista and me diligently typing the next chapter of my memoir on your black keys—because that’s how these kinds of relationships work, right?
When we go crashing down, we come back every time.
I know that’s how it used to be. All it took was a little time with the charger to mediate any conflict between us and then we’d be up and running again as if nothing ever happened. That’s how we’d gotten through everything up to this point.
We were built to fall apart.
I guess that’s why I bought that four-year warranty, but I won’t accept excuses like this. I invested too much time and money into this relationship to settle for a day or so of activity before you break down again. Losing battery is one thing, but being unresponsive for hours on end is quite another my friend and I will not tolerate that kind of behavior. But…
I wish you knew that I miss you too much to be mad anymore.
I miss the sound of your smooth keys clicking along with each word I type and the way you light up when I pull you out of your cushioned case to tackle an assignment. I miss Safari and Dropbox and scrolling with two fingers and Finder and Command+Shift+3. Everything this PC lacks and everything only you have.
I wish you were right here, right now it’s all good.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’d settle for spotty wi-fi and even a few moments of freezing if that’s what it took to be writing this letter on your Pages. After lugging around this dinosaur of a computer all week, I want you back.
So I’m sorry. I forgive you. Please come home.
Love, Julia
