Obituary for a Dead Macbook

I never named you, even though it was cool to name laptops when I got you. I regret that in this moment, because now that I’m writing to you, I don’t have anything to call you. But you died and now I have to write you an obituary. Because that is the logical thing to do at this time, for an inanimate object.

srsly though, it is super ded

You came into my life four or so years ago. Packed in the slim, exciting boxes that macs come in. Both my housemates had macs too. Each night we’d sit in our lounge room, macs on knees, being really social and stuff.

I got you a red hard case that clipped onto you and made your little apple glow red in the darkness. I fell asleep next to that glowing apple so often it was almost a comfort. During the day, the red case made you stand out from other macbooks. I’m sure literally no one ever thought this, but I always liked the idea of being ‘the girl with the red macbook’ in cafes or in the park.

You were a chunky white beast in a red shell but I lugged you all over. You kept me sane during times of insanity. I watched Doctor Who on you, I dropped nutella on you, I listened to new music on you. I took you with me on holidays when I probably should’ve been enjoying the sights, not trying to find wi-fi.

You came with me when I moved towns, and the connection you gave me to my old life and my online life was so important when I had no friends and no job. It was just you and me, alone in the house, drinking tea (me) and downloading Avatar the Last Airbender (you).

Internet Party

Every blog I’ve ever written, I wrote on you. Except this one, and the last one. I sort of associate blogging with you, and when you left… well I won’t pretend it was the only reason the blogs dried up, but typing a blog on a different computer still doesn’t feel quite right. Even though you had started making terrifying whirring noises. Even though you would get so hot on my lap it literally burnt.

I hope you don’t see my new macbook air as a betrayal. I needed something to write on, and you were gone. And they don’t make you anymore. Also you weighed possible 10kg, no offence. I know, I know, it’s so skinny, and shiny, and fancy and I’m SORRY. You’ll always be the first, and while perhaps you’re not a superior model, I loved you, and

I’m really sorry I spilled water on you. That was dumb.

R.I.P nameless red macbook baby. See you in technology heaven (I assume I’ll get robot parts at some point and be allowed in on a technicality).

By Sir-Heartsalot (Deviant Art)

P.S In August I'm going to be doing this thing and it's pretty cool.

Be(come) Yourself

Scrolling through your own social media history is the ultimate in narcissism. The very best bits of your life, documented in a scrolling timeline for people you hardly know. For people who, were they to change their name to something hilarious on Facebook, you would likely forget. Like ‘who the fuck is SteAmboat SArah? And why does she like capital As so much?’

I’ve been on facebook since 2007. You can scroll back to a time when they used to have that graffiti thing on each page, and when you could have a ‘pet’ and you had to feed it. You can scroll back to a time when I used the word “retarded” publicly and without shame, when I thought it was ok to call people sluts. You click through another month, another life and think, ‘who is this jerk? Oh wait, it’s me.’

I read this post on tumblr the other day and it said:

there’s a lot of unspoken pressure to keep liking the things you used to like and to keep dressing the way you’ve always dressed and to never question what you believe in and basically “be yourself” has slowly morphed into “be what everyone knows you as” but trust me when i say if you just give it up and simply make decisions and take actions based purely on what would make you happy, you’ll gain a very comforting sense of self peace (floozys)

This has never been truer than on social media. Where you’ve still got people hanging around who you went to primary school with. Hell, I’ve got people on there who haven’t seen me since primary school. Do they think I’m still really sad about being flat chested? Do they think I’m still the same girl who spread gossip and drama and left a love note in a boy’s desk? There are people on my facebook who were never my real life friend to begin with. Whose wedding dresses and beach holidays and puppies look pretty nice I guess, but whom I’m never going to talk to again. What do they think of me? Do they even remember what I was like in high school? Could they even picture my face if I didn’t upload a selfie every 3.2 days?

On this blog I have a written record of thought spanning back four years or so. My first post is a kinda sexist rant about how I think my opinions about other girls’ bodies actually matter. They don’t, clearly. Sorry women. I’ve changed, so should I take it down? 

I don’t think so?

I like to see this blog as an external record of some fairly complicated internal changes. And maybe it’s important to leave it here for all to see. Or maybe it’s not. I don’t know. But I’m gonna leave my thoughts out there anyway, for better or worse.

I guess what I’m saying is it’s really hard to acknowledge when you’ve changed. And for all the wonderful things I love about social media, sometimes making a solid, written, record of an opinion can make it harder to change. So let’s embrace our past stupidities, let’s acknowledge that we got facebook before we knew how to hold reasonable conversations, let’s proudly change our opinions.

The internet is forever, but our dumb-ass opinions don’t have to be.

 

Right?