Requiem for a Desktop

Dear Frankenstien, aka Lucretia, aka Cowputer,

It seems like only yesterday I entertained violent thoughts about the UPS driver who wouldn't bring you all the way to the top of the third floor stairs and instead made various family members hunt you down at the distributing center. The day after we unboxed you, that box became Olivia kitty's favorite windowseat and so it remains. I can't count how many keyboards, mice, or mousepads we've been through together, and I will never forget the joy of finding out that you and Fantasia, the new printer, played well together.

Until the virus struck. I have no idea how it got in here, with spam blockers and virus sheilds, but it did, and I have to accept that this may be the end of the road. Not all of the vital applications will work now, it won't let you talk to Fantasia anymore, and we can't even run the antivirus programs. Maybe a full wipe will bring things back to normal. I don't know.

The fact that a new-used laptop is even now on its way doesn't mean I love you any less, dear Frankenstien. On the contrary, I wrote my last fanfics and first novel on you. You were the one to bring me news of an agent's pass, and my first sale. You were the one who gave me the first glimpse of my cover contest and allowed me to chat with friends the world over. We've played all of the Sims1 expansions together for the first time, and though I 'll have them on the new puter, it won't be the same. The Sims2 is something special between me and the Bunninator, the puter that lives in the bedroom, but there is and always will be only one Frankenstein.

We will try to fix you, we really will, but if that's not possible, know that our time together was nothing but good (disregard the times I smacked your monitor when the blue screen of death ate my days' work. I know the Sims1 upside down head plagues were not your fault, but that of the software; I've never held that against you in the least.) In the best case scenario, we'll have more time to spend together in the home office. I'll slip in to see you on late nights when the dh wants to putter or play casino games on the Bunninator. Or watch news. You'll replace the big heavy paperweight that is too slow to turn on. You'll still have your row of Beanie Babies on top of the monitor, and I will still change the desktop color scheme with my whims.

Non-writers may not understand why I'm writing to you, but for other writers, the bond between person and machine is a very special thing. We know you are real and alive and understand what we are saying. So, Frankenstein, whatever the future holds for you and I, thank you for everything so far, and I will always hold a spot for you in my heart.