Eulogy for a friend and enemy
by Mr. Nobel
I remember the day I first met you. Times were simpler then, or rather I was simpler then. Our first meeting may have been arranged, but even then I felt a profound spiritual connection to you.
Even though I was and still am very firmly not a sexual deviant, I could see that you were handsome. Beautiful, even. And then, I found out you had formidable intellect to match your exquisite body. You liked the same things I did, had the same dreams I had and even shared a similar sense of humor. If that wasn’t love, then I don’t know what love is.
The first year of our relationship was great.
We didn’t exactly conquer the world (and still won’t until the device is finished), but we had much fun together and grew together. It was, I think, November of 2009. That was when the first cracks started showing.
There wasn’t much to distinguish that grey, autumn morning. We’d gone about our regular routines – I had coffee and you, pointedly, didn’t. I was flipping through some Washington Post articles when I noticed a strange, blank look on your face, I hadn’t ever seen anything like that before, which, since I considered myself a bit of an expert, scared me immensely.
You might have fallen on the floor. I don’t remember. I might have screamed. I don’t remember.
What I do remember is the real experts would later tell me that you had what they called a complete breakdown, and that you had a long history of mental and physical breakdowns before. When I took you home that night, things were no longer and could no longer be the same.
I was angry with you, that you didn’t tell me about these incidents earlier. Did you think that they could go away, that we could obliviously live happily ever after under a shadow? You needed help and attention. I could only offer anger and a cold shoulder. And so, we grew slowly apart.
We still kept the bare minimum pretenses of civility. The morning routine still, largely, persisted. We, however, lost that precious bond that held us together. I developed a profound distrust of you. If you hid that damning bit of information from me, what else could you be hiding? That breakdown took a lot out of you. You seemed to react much slower and much less gracefully than before.
Still, we clung together. Possibly out of the misguided hope that things could return to normal. Definitely because leaving you would have been too expensive.
You had another breakdown the following year, in 2010. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the first one, but it still felt as if you lost a part of yourself in the process.
In 2011, you had your worst incident yet. Vital organs had shut down. You were on life support, waiting for a potentially life saving transplant to come in. I stayed by you throughout, quietly composing a eulogy in my head as your life slowly drained away. The matching transplant was found, probably, the day before you would’ve run out of time.
The procedure went smoothly, and, once again, you were pulled back from the precipice. They’d sent us home soon after to open up some beds for that unfortunate clown car accident on the 270.
When we went home, things improved. Dramatically. The doctors had put you on an experimental new treatment, and you regained some of your former glory. We grew back together. Admittedly, you were never quite as sharp as you once seemed. But that I attributed to age. You didn’t really understand YouTube the same way my grandparents don’t understand hippity hop. Scratch that, the same way my parents don’t understand hippity hop.
You became, once again, a trusted part of my life. We went on many adventures together in the following year, through pirate battles, through outbreaks. Through recessions and through rebounds. Things were looking up, as if maybe, just maybe we could live together forever under that shadow.
I fell asleep the night before yesterday to uneasy nightmares and punctuated dreams, almost like I could sense a disturbance in the force. I awoke the next morning to find you cold, stiff and dead. Just like that, you were torn again from my life. This time, forever.
I would say that I hope to meet you again in the afterlife, except I’m pretty sure that if there is an actual religious afterlife, one of us would be in the crap place and the other would be burning somewhere.
So, instead, I’ll just say this: rest in peace Dell M1530.
I write this from another computer, knowing in my heart that I will never find another one like you. The incredibly shady autopsy I performed said that your CPU died of a broken heart. I guess that’s kind of poetic, in some really lame way.
I hope that, wherever you are, the drivers are up to date and the electric sheep are plentiful.