Message to Mike
Don't let the bastards get you down.
Since you admitted your cellphone was low on batteries, I can imagine that there's some good person out there tortured by the fact that the batteries died while they were scrolling through your phone list, trying to decide who to call to find out how to return your cellphone. Someone who, that day, pressed the power button every four hours, hoping that in that 45 s period that the phone was running on any coincidental free electrons that might have been overlooked by the current earlier, in that 45 s period of resurrection, that he might hear a ring, and that it might be you on the other end, and maybe before the dying green light of the display fades away he'll hear part of a name, a subway stop, an affiliation, perhaps even the first part of an e-mail address, something, anything, that will lead him back to you. Perhaps the phone did ring. Perhaps its last words were "Mike, it's your father, are you there? Are you there?" or "Mike, it's Emily's dean, could you tell her to check her e-ma--" and then silence. Perhaps your cellphone was faithful to its duty even as its signal began to distort, still struggling to be heard above the sound of its electronic heart's last beats--BEEP BEEP...BEEP BEEP...BEEP BE--
Don't stop believing in karma. Just know that batteries aren't included.
A website I frequent is run by a guy who's been out of work for about a year and a half, so he keeps a website with content that changes everday. There's Wednesday screwups, where people submit stories of embarrassing things they did, Friday Boss from Hell Stories, etc. He also does some cool Flash stuff, which he just sold to Comedy Central and they're making a cartoon based on his work. So I guess he's not that unemployed. Anyway, I decided it would be really cathartic to submit a screw-up of my own, something that makes me blush everytime I think about it. He just posted it today, and I figure I might as well get over it completely and own up to it, so if you want a good laugh, here, you can go read it: OddTodd
and click on Wednesday Screwup. I'm owning up to my own idiocy.
More blah blah blah? Not today. Today something really important. Today I'm really angry. Today I've got something I really want to say: PLEASE GIVE ME GMAIL PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE, give it to me too! I, who has been googling since before googling was a word! I, who has spread the word among my friends and loved ones, so that they too became Googlers. Oh, Google, I know I have failed you in these recent times, but understand my computer was experiencing a difficult internal problem, a problem which we've been working together to fix. For when my computer regains its healthy bluish glow, where will we go first? To whom will we send our little bits first? Across the country, the world, my cry will be heard for all, "OPEN INTERNET EXPLORER! Open, and do not show me your Update Page, take me home, to the place where the minimal graphics and extensive tools cause the computer, nay, the ardent searcher herself, to heave a sigh of relief. A soft murmur of static is emitted from my speakers, and I realize that my computer's suserations communicate a desire...to be fixed. By a professional. Not a wonderful search engine; the problem is much more complex, and Google, even your caches hold not the cure for the mysterious disease which is unfolding inside that beige rectangular case. My PC's groans are not the sort which escape from a the lips of a lover in fuego; no it is the groan of pain, paralysis, and anticipation of the horrors of my temporary solutions: Everex PC, I am not a computer expert, a computer geek, or even an engineer, and the only way that I can help you is through the unreliable and finger-crippling Ctrl-Alt-Delete Maneuver. Yes, we all need a little more ctrl.