Static From the Underground

I can't talk long. The spyware is listening in.

Oh Computer, how I've missed you. It's been seven cruel days since our parting, when you were poisoned with doggedly malevolent files and I thusly became hotly pursued by Smitfraud Corporation's relentless bots disguised as benign virus alerts.

What have I done around this godforsaken wasteland without you? I've read quite a bit. It's not the same--you have to use both hands to turn the pages, instead of scrolling down. I've been sleeping a great deal, recovering from two weeks of long hours and late nights. I've spent over $125 on alcohol since the beginning of June. I will never forgive my carelessness in neglecting to firewall you from the threat of invasion.

Someday we can be together again, like we used to. Remember? Those golden summer days, crimson twilights, and star-dotted midnights that we ignored while we sat inside together, giggling and sobbing as we instant messaged for hours. YouTube. TvLinks. Your glow brightened my eyes as I stroked your keys, and you sang softly to me through muted speakers.

Every day I am away from you, my weakness mounts with my frustration. And consequently, with my shame. I must confess it: I've been on other computers, my love. I know, I know, but it's excruciating without you and your sweet internet to cushion the hardships of everyday existence. Facebook beckons, what with its sensuous mini-feed and alluring new applications to investigate. With every transgression I grow guiltier; nightly I come home and find you crashed, watching as you struggle so valiantly against this plague inflicted upon you, the pop-ups covering your screen like a pox.

The spyware is all around me. I can't shake it. They say they're here to protect me, protect you, but I'm not buying it. Every five seconds there's a malaware alert, flashing false yellow propaganda. I've longed to return to you, dear Computer. I will count the minutes until you are cured of this affliction. Then, when it is safe to roam the untamed online wilderness once more, we will ride off into a sunset even more vibrant than our firewall, hand-in-mouse.