"Remember the time that chick fingered my apple?"
Sorry, dude, I'm getting a Mac. After months of thinking about buying a laptop, the idea has finally plunked its ass in my brain for good. I borrowed Justin's iBook this afternoon and took it up to Spider House. Cute girls were walking by, albeit on their way to the can, I got some frito pie and a Lone Star, I exchanged witty banter with nerds online, all while typing quotes I intend to use in my paper. Before I was an old-fashioned handwriting kind of guy. I can't get any damn work done in my house, so that always meant sitting in the dim yellow glow of an undersized, antique-but-still-mod lamp, filling spiral pages with my girly scrawl, then transcribing those onto the computer, all this after I'd already post-it noted the shit out of my books' margins (underlining is fucking bourgeoisie). Three steps into one: it wasn't so much a revelation as a realization of the hundreds of hours I'd wasted with my Gutenberg-era ways.
Justin had previously told me, "If you get a Mac, girls will come and talk to you."
"Bullshit. Don't fucking tell me that." I wanted nothing to do with tech-nerd fantasies. So of course tonight some girl comes up and asks me about the iBook. Turns out she was thinking about getting one, and she wanted to know if I liked mine. Then she went to the bathroom. No doubt she wanted to hit it, but she was probably intimidated by the large stacks of criticism on black literature surrounding me. Phallic, you ask? Very.
Kevin had also told me that coffee-shop girls love Macs, but I never believe anything Kevin says when it comes to women--mainly because he's playing by a whole different set of tall-guy rules, with a nice-car clause. "Yeah, I told you," he tells me upon hearing of the bathroom blonde. "Remember the time that chick fingered my apple?" he asks, referring, of course, to his testicles. Or I mean that cute little glowing apple that declares to all the Mac users around you, Hey, you spent $1800 or more too, huh? Yes, the other little glowing apples chime in unison. Then they all scorn the few boxy, angry, sharp-cornered PC laptops that some fools who missed the switch campaign brazenly showed up with.
But don't fret, my little Gateway, you've held up so well, despite your 500mHz processor. There will always be a place in my life for you, you little porn machine.
Sorry, dude, I'm getting a Mac. After months of thinking about buying a laptop, the idea has finally plunked its ass in my brain for good. I borrowed Justin's iBook this afternoon and took it up to Spider House. Cute girls were walking by, albeit on their way to the can, I got some frito pie and a Lone Star, I exchanged witty banter with nerds online, all while typing quotes I intend to use in my paper. Before I was an old-fashioned handwriting kind of guy. I can't get any damn work done in my house, so that always meant sitting in the dim yellow glow of an undersized, antique-but-still-mod lamp, filling spiral pages with my girly scrawl, then transcribing those onto the computer, all this after I'd already post-it noted the shit out of my books' margins (underlining is fucking bourgeoisie). Three steps into one: it wasn't so much a revelation as a realization of the hundreds of hours I'd wasted with my Gutenberg-era ways.
Justin had previously told me, "If you get a Mac, girls will come and talk to you."
"Bullshit. Don't fucking tell me that." I wanted nothing to do with tech-nerd fantasies. So of course tonight some girl comes up and asks me about the iBook. Turns out she was thinking about getting one, and she wanted to know if I liked mine. Then she went to the bathroom. No doubt she wanted to hit it, but she was probably intimidated by the large stacks of criticism on black literature surrounding me. Phallic, you ask? Very.
Kevin had also told me that coffee-shop girls love Macs, but I never believe anything Kevin says when it comes to women--mainly because he's playing by a whole different set of tall-guy rules, with a nice-car clause. "Yeah, I told you," he tells me upon hearing of the bathroom blonde. "Remember the time that chick fingered my apple?" he asks, referring, of course, to his testicles. Or I mean that cute little glowing apple that declares to all the Mac users around you, Hey, you spent $1800 or more too, huh? Yes, the other little glowing apples chime in unison. Then they all scorn the few boxy, angry, sharp-cornered PC laptops that some fools who missed the switch campaign brazenly showed up with.
But don't fret, my little Gateway, you've held up so well, despite your 500mHz processor. There will always be a place in my life for you, you little porn machine.
posted by Matt at 1:03 AM
|
<< Home