Dear IBM Thinkpad,

I'd like to say it's not you- really it's me.  But I think we both know that you just weren't into this relationship from the start.  First, a few months into "us",  your LCD screen just "happened" to die.  Then, what was it? Your hard drive failed.  Once at the mark of our first year anniversary, and then again at our second anniversary.  I thought that once we started graduate school things had changed.  You were always willing to write another paper, and even though there was an influx of new WashU software, you were so sweet and compliant.  And then—  your battery broke during my first law school final. 

What did I do wrong?  Was it because my parakeet bit your mouse? Was it because we got caught walking home in the rain, one too many times?  Was it because all I ever wanted to talk to you about was word processing and web surfing?

This past month, when you lost four pages of my paper on appropriate therapies for Asian American children, I did not say one negative thing about you.  Just yesterday, when you lost two hours of my rambling theories concerning Aboriginal incarceration in Canada- did I yell? No.  I simply went and got a jump drive.  But today, I think we both know that what you did was wrong.

Friends don't just die on friends.  Friends don't just deliberately take three years worth of digital pictures and put them into the shredder like you have done.  What will I tell my grandchildren, fifty years from now?

"And this was Nanna at the zoo when she was 22, and look, this is picture is of Nanna at 26!"

"Nanna, what about in-between?"

"Don't you know your numbers, honey?  Twenty-six comes right after twenty-two . . ."

I'd forever be known as the Idiot Nanna.  Or I could tell them those where my "Russian Spy years."  But then I'd be known as the Lying Nanna.  Or I could tell them the truth, "Honey, that was when Nanna had a crappy computer and it died on her."

To which, my grandchildren would look at me and say, "Nanna, what does "crappy" mean?"

 And then I'd forever be known as Poopy Nanna.  Thanks IBM Thinkpad.  Thanks a lot.

Due to the gorgeous weather this afternoon, I decided to sit outside and retain some vitamin E and Civil Procedure simultaneously.  I also brought out my bird, thinking what the heck, what's good for the goose is good for the gander.  So we're sitting outside, chillin' like villans and then they come marching up my stairs.  Men and women fashionably dressed in black, drinking starbucks, wearing shades.  I look up from my front porch, squinting from the sun reflecting off my book, wearing an enormous puffy vest and an imitation Russian fur cap.  Needless to say, I look ridiculous, but I am warm.  And the first man looks at me and says, "We're going to film a commerical in your neighbors apartment!"  And I look back at him from beneath my hat, and blurt out, "Do you need a bird?  My bird looks fabulous!" 

Now, let's pause for a moment and analyze this.  Man filming commercial speaks to you, and rather than recommending your own personal acting skills, you recommend your birds? Needless to say, my bird did not get the part.  Nor, evidently, do I win points in the social skills category. Onwards and forwards my friends, onwards and forwards.     

A sample of my culinary menu for the next week:

1 packet of Cheese & Broccoli Hot Pockets

2 frozen Tombstone Supreme Pizzas

1 package of Pillsbury breakfast tarts

1 package of mint Oreos

I now officially hate law school finals

When I was younger, I used to scam her and take her hong bao money from her.  Then, I would shove her in front of the eager relatives that were ready to kiss and pinch cheeks. Oh, and let's not forget the times that I would convince her to get me beverages and snacks after school while I lounged around on the sofa watching soap operas.  Ahh, the joys of sisterhood.  Now my little sister is all grown up and is a senior at University of Wisconsin and she's doing psychological research on human subjects.  The topic for her senior thesis?  The ability of people to recover from hangovers. That's right, my sister is paying people ten dollars an hour ($80 total) to get drunk, and then she locks them up in a sterile room and watches them recover.  But wait, it gets better.  After the "alcohol challenge"- which I kid you not, appears to be the appropriate scientific terminology, she then administers electroshock.  Electroshock.  Now, you may be wondering, "Why would anyone let themselves be electrocuted?"  Ahh, common layman/laywoman that is exactly what I wondered as well.  Evidently, this has been sanctioned by the Human Testing Board (possibly not the correct name of the association- but sorry, I was laughing too hard to hear) and it is not, I repeat is not electrocution.  Rather it is low levels of electro shock. Yes, the difference is profoundly clear to me now as well. 

Anyways, I pity the people that are given the placebo (shots that smell and taste like whiskey but aren't actually whiskey) and then are subject to electroshock.  Actually, I pity the people that are going to be hungover and then are subject to electroshock.  I suggested that she up the pay rate to twenty dollars an hour, but she said that people are easy and for $80 bucks they'll be lined up around the corner to get drunk and shocked. Who knew that science could be so fun?

** A note to my little high schoolers that are reading this:  I am no way sanctioning getting drunk and electrocuted.  Neither am I sanctioning getting drunk by itself, or getting electrocuted by itself. Rather I am employing hyperbole here, and a healthy dose of sarcasm.  I bet you if you can fit hyperbole into an English essay that'll get you extra bonus points as well. **   

oh st. louis.  just when i was learning to like you- you gave me allergies.

an elephant never forgets.

snif.