I may or may not have told you that, after several years of computing at home through the kindness of strangers, I celebrated the arrival of my first-ever serious salary bonus by purchasing a new laptop. It's a Macbook Pro.
This is kinda amazing on several fronts. First, if you had told me – even a year ago – that I would be able to afford a Macbook Pro, I'd have (a) laughed out loud at you for your unbelievable foolishness and (b) punched you in the neck for taunting me with things I could never have.
Actually, not long ago, I wouldn't have bought a Apple Computer even if I had been able to afford it. I was a PC guy. I'd been working on PCs since I first started working with computers way back in the early 90s, compliments of the Original Velvet Prison.
But things change. Thanks to The Velvet Prison, for the last year my work laptop has been a Macbook Pro, and I've not only learned not to hate them, I've grown to love them for the trouble-free existence I've evolved. No more, for me, the unexplained crashes, the ridiculous slowing of performance when multiple programs are running.
I'm like a pig in shite.
All of which leads me to something that struck me the other day.
You see, one of the features of my new laptop is that I use my own photos as a screensaver (I know, I know, a Windows PC can do the same thing... less elegantly; I'm a convert, don't forget, and there's nothing so rabid as a convert), and I just happened to look over at my screensaver not long ago, and saw the photo to the right being displayed (worst. grammatical construction. ever.)
Seeing the photo made me realize that I had, for the most part, completely blocked out memories of the four months I spent living in Bushwick. The time I spent with DeKalb Avenue as my stop on the L line; the time I spent living in the roach-infested railroad apartment in which, for a midnight pee, I had a choice of stumbling through my roommate's bedroom or throwing on a robe, finding me keys, and exiting the apartment through the separate entrance in my bedroom only to re-enter through the front door.
Oh my god, I don't know how I ever justified living like that. Was it the $600 in monthly rent, all included? Might've been.
Still, I'm a little bit amazed that I could simply remove a whole section of memories from my brain.
A.Pants, of course, would argue that this isn't terribly surprising, since he is under the impression that I'm an Alzheimer's patient. I think he's a Mentat,ferchrissakes, but we won't go there.
This is kinda amazing on several fronts. First, if you had told me – even a year ago – that I would be able to afford a Macbook Pro, I'd have (a) laughed out loud at you for your unbelievable foolishness and (b) punched you in the neck for taunting me with things I could never have.
Actually, not long ago, I wouldn't have bought a Apple Computer even if I had been able to afford it. I was a PC guy. I'd been working on PCs since I first started working with computers way back in the early 90s, compliments of the Original Velvet Prison.
But things change. Thanks to The Velvet Prison, for the last year my work laptop has been a Macbook Pro, and I've not only learned not to hate them, I've grown to love them for the trouble-free existence I've evolved. No more, for me, the unexplained crashes, the ridiculous slowing of performance when multiple programs are running.I'm like a pig in shite.
All of which leads me to something that struck me the other day.
You see, one of the features of my new laptop is that I use my own photos as a screensaver (I know, I know, a Windows PC can do the same thing... less elegantly; I'm a convert, don't forget, and there's nothing so rabid as a convert), and I just happened to look over at my screensaver not long ago, and saw the photo to the right being displayed (worst. grammatical construction. ever.)
Seeing the photo made me realize that I had, for the most part, completely blocked out memories of the four months I spent living in Bushwick. The time I spent with DeKalb Avenue as my stop on the L line; the time I spent living in the roach-infested railroad apartment in which, for a midnight pee, I had a choice of stumbling through my roommate's bedroom or throwing on a robe, finding me keys, and exiting the apartment through the separate entrance in my bedroom only to re-enter through the front door.
Oh my god, I don't know how I ever justified living like that. Was it the $600 in monthly rent, all included? Might've been.
Still, I'm a little bit amazed that I could simply remove a whole section of memories from my brain.
A.Pants, of course, would argue that this isn't terribly surprising, since he is under the impression that I'm an Alzheimer's patient. I think he's a Mentat,ferchrissakes, but we won't go there.
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