Missing my Mac

It’s been a week. 7 whole excruciating days since my loyal MacBook Pro carked it in a spluttering fit of pixels. I immediately rushed it to the computer store (and felt a bit smug given that the guy beside me had managed to drown his laptop in pear cider…at least mine wasn’t a case of Macslaughter…). The technician gave a preliminary diagnosis of dead battery and told me it’d be a fair wait before my Mac was ‘tickety-boo’ (I’m assuming that’s some British slang and not a red flag about his technical knowhow).

No laptop, no wifi in my room…this has affected me in more ways than I’d have thought:

  • No TV shows! Being behind on the Mindy Project concerns me more than being behind on class readings. On the upside, I’ve realised that reruns of The City are not integral to my happiness, and I’ve devoted much less mental effort to the question of how Olivia Palermo went from treacherous villain to America’s fashion sweetheart (does the world not remember how mean she was to sweet Whitney?)
  • My handwriting has gotten unbelievably good; like, royal calligrapher good. Used to be the only time I’d put pen to paper was to sign something (always with the anxiety that I’d be suspected of credit card fraud, as my signature’s gotten progressively clumsier over the years). Now I’m signing my name with panache, people.
  • I’ve resorted to college computers. Sometimes I have brilliant ideas at 5.30am (ok, they seem brilliant mid-REM, pre-coffee) which means I traipse across the grounds getting frost-nibbled fingers, but also get to see Magdalen at its most peaceful:



  • I’ve realised that I’ve been treating my laptop as a lapdog – relying on it for comfort and to keep my knees warm when I sit in bed. This irks me, but not as much as cold knees irk me.
  • I’ve realised how awful my parents are at texting. This week, Skyping has been replaced with flurries of only sometimes intelligible iMessages:

image image

I can only hope and pray that today is the day that sweet Mac and I are reunited.

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