The baby I spent hours preening over, cooing over, editing and rewriting and rearranging until I got it just right. Retyping it from a print out after the first Seagate hard drive in my Apple laptop crashed. Fussing over ever word, like a parent over an infant, every sentence a finger nail, a toe, a new tooth.
When the second hard drive went down, I considered, in a moment that seemed to stretch out in slow motion into all eternity, into a long, agonized scream of anger and pain, that when they replaced the last crashed Seagate hard drive, they probably replaced it with another Seagate drive, and, that, oh fuck, oh fuck, OH FUCK, the external hard drive where I backed everything up died two weeks ago.
Ninety three pages! Taken before their time! This, fair readers is murder! Child murder! And the blood of the murdered infant remains on my hands as people ask me again and again, why didn’t you back it up somewhere else? And Apple (or should I be pointing at Seagate for the recall? Fuck it, both companies deserve to be fucked by tidal waves and tornadoes and low stock prices) leaves me here to clean up the mess alone, to pay for the new hard drive myself.
It wasn’t just the 93 pages. It was 15 pages of a travel zine about Holland and Ireland. It was 10 of a zine about my trip to America this summer. It was an almost-finished alternative travel guide zine for Germany, details meticulously researched, introduction finally finished after months of writer’s block. It was song lyrics and brainstorms and folders and folders full of half-started, half-finished ideas and drafts. Dear. Sweet. Jesus.
But if I think about all that, I will lose all motivation to ever bother leaving my bed again, so I’m just going to get it over with and file that information under ‘repressed traumatic events’ right now.
There remains a chance the size of my pinky finger that the data can be recovered by someone who will want an amount of money that I will propbably not be able to afford, or that the backup drive can at least be recovered by a magical chord that a computer-geek friend told me about a few days ago.
So if you have a moment, sacrafice the village virgin in the volcano tonight in the name of the technology gods. But be wary. Unlike the dumpster gods, who are kind and benevolent, who give food and life, the technology gods have been sent here to destroy us, to ease us into alienation by replacing the presence of our friends with the presence of moniters and myspace profiles, to make music expendable and worthless (a big shout out to mp3s!), to ruin our handwriting with keyboards and our grammar with instant messenger, to make us lazy and dependent, to force the most beautiful machine ever invented (the typewriter) into extinction, and to make sure that we can never have enough back up copies to escape their wrath, ever, should they one day decide to come for us.