No wonder they call it a virus. The whole damn thing is a virus, a parasitic virus that eats under your skin like one of those Amazon parasites that slipped through a guys genitals while he was standing in the river. The creature snakes through my bowels and intestines, ripping up organs as it has already ripped up my drives. My husband wishes me a good morning. That was two hours ago. It hasn’t been good, and if he thinks I was grouchy then, he oughta see me know.
A whole morning, unplugging cords, replugging them, waiting for a new screen image, anything but “communication not available” between the stupid computer and printer . This black tangle of spaghetti cords has frayed my nerves and left me with a case of technological shingles. This has been going on for three long hours. I call for my son to doctor this infuriating worm of modern life. He doesn’t have the right meds. I am itching, I am scratching, I am pulling cords and pulling my hair. What am I going to do?
This contraption is nothing but a plague that reduces wanna-be-Shakespeares to wanna-be-geeks – anything, anything, to get over this frustration.
I just wish it would scream with me.
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Oh man, you totally nail this feeling! I love all the illness/medical metaphors. Just perfect!
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