Friday, August 12, 2005

in which fortune does not favour the bold

I am writing this from work. I have killed my computer. A spot of late night computer surgery ground to a savage halt when I slipped up, jamming a jagged stream of mis-placed commands deep into its brain. The results of my imprudent meddlings were instantaneous. A startling array of error messages rose to the surface like bubbles from a sinking ship accompanied by an disturbing, psychotic display of repeated and futile attempts to boot itself up OVER and OVER and OVER again before finally, mercifully, coming to rest on the Blue Screen Of Death. At this point, water began to leak from my eyes like Data off of Star Trek - the malfunction of an electronic device actually squeezing genuine emotion from my cold, cold heart.
This morning, I carried its lifeless corpse to the computer hospital.
"Hello, I've broken my computer" I say. The receptionist gives me a quizzical look.
"Yes, I've deleted some very important files from the registry" I continue blithely "and now it's broken".
A technician from in the back, roused by my bold declarations of stupidity, comes to my assistance. I explain to him what I have done.
"Have you tried overwriting your operating system?" He asks.
"Ummmm, no" I admit "I daren't".
This statement suddenly seems absurd in light of the fact that I have just told this man about how I brazenly deleted my CONFIG.SYS file. Yes, that's what I did. There. I've said it.
"You could try overwriting your operating system then" he says, and I am suddenly, dangerously, filled with a new, exuberant hope - the very same emotion that got me into this fine mess in the first place. I leave, taking the corpse with me. On the way home, I imagine what I will do with the big fat amount of money I have saved myself by fixing my own shoddy handiwork.
I arrive home optimistic and eager to fix my electronic buddy once and for all, just FIX it so that everything will be back to normal, so I can just check my e-mails every 5 minutes and everything will be alright again. The renewed vigour with which I set about formatting my hard drive lasts about 8 minutes - just long enough to get the whole process underway, and have it unceremoniously crash, like so many hopes and dreams.
So goodbye treehouse. The needs of my poor trusty robotic brain mean that you are destined to be purchased by someone less of an idiot than I. (Sniff).