I arrived home, eager to blast away at my new computer game, when the acrid sulfur stung my nose. The already-hot weather felt hotter. I knew it, tried to deny it, wanted to disbelieve it. My computer had burned out. All those late nights that we spent together, all the forged memories and timeless experiences- all gone. Too shocked to plan a funeral or wail dirges, my feet solemnly dragged themselves out. My baby had died.

Luckily, my parents had access to a computer technician, whom knew of a parts supplier. Glee filled me as my computer was shipped off to computer-heaven, while I waited with a ticket in my hand. “Round way trip.” You’ll be back, right? Burned circuits will not harm you. Damaged motherboards? You’re stronger than that. Overuse and poor maintenance? Heh.

Depression. Withdrawal. Boredom. Those cache of emotions would be gnawing their way out of me had my brother not left his computer at home. But it was tacky, and the chrome-blue varnish almost yelled, “Barf, why don’t you?” Only six gigabytes remained on it; the desktop and hard drive were cluttered. Cleaning the computer’s exterior was harder than defragmenting and optimizing its performance. But I was pretty bored. Borderline insane.

The programs rolled in: Uniblue, YourUninstaller, Super Anti-Spyware. Byte by byte, folder by folder, I wondered if the stream of “Blah blah OPXCAKSIO.dll” coding would ever cease. I could imagine my parents walking in just as the computer exploded from data overload. Hell, if that comp (as outdated as it may be) went down, take me with you I say.

Five days of pestering parents ended. Technician-made-harbinger-of-paradise flew to my doorstep on ethereal, invisible wings. His halo twittered and there it was, my black lustrous computer, waiting, just waiting for my fingers and clicking and Wikipedia-ing.

It lived. I lived.