Don’t call it a comeback

So my geriatric computing machine wasn’t working for the better part of a week, hopefully explaining my conspicuous absence.1

But, after days of tinkering with the infernal contraption and inserting and tweaking various widgets and doodads2, I finally managed to get it up and running. At three in the morning.

Now, a sensible, fully functioning adult would probably just thank Ammun-Ra and Wotan, brush their teeth, possibly rub one out3 and call it a night. An awesome motherfucker on the other hand, would just stay awake for the next 17 hours.

After spending more than six of those hours catching up on news and feeds and podcasts from the past four days, it occurred to me that I had no idea what I had done to finally fix my computer. The final solution, as it were,4 was something that I could have sworn I tried as soon as I realized there was a problem.5

In the midst of banging around firefox and laughing inconsolably at the state of reality television, I had a scary thought.

What if I never fixed anything.6

For a very uncomfortable fifth of a second, I doubted my own sanity enough to consider the possibility that I was sitting at my desk banging away at my keyboard and stifling my laughter, in front of a blank screen.

And people say computers rot your brain.

Nonsense.

  1. “He was gone?” “Yeah just play along.” []
  2. Who knew a computer’s nipples were called doodads? []
  3. As tribute to Ammun-Ra and Wotan. []
  4. Yep. I made a computer holocaust joke. []
  5. If only the same could be said for Hitler. Alright, I should probably stop. I have Jewish friend(s), I swear! []
  6. M. Night Shyamalan, you have met your match. []

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