I have recently undergone a lobotomy. When my Sony crashed a few weeks ago, I thought I was experiencing a heart attack and stroke simultaneously but it turns out the “heart attack” was my searing emotional breakdown and the “stroke” feeling was coming on from hearing “Don’t you back up your work?” and “Your hard disk failed,” and “Try backing up your work online to a server. Why don’t you do that already?” Everything I don’t understand about computers was thrown in my face during a time where I was watching my life disappear before my eyes. I am a writer, geniuses. I am an artist, ok? I don’t always back up my shit, I don’t even really know how to do anything but click the save button and make rudimentary files on my desktop to save said shit in. (If by chance one of my university profs is reading this, oh holy hell I am screwed because I am supposedly “trained” in the field of say… being able to write, catalogue and save – including the backing up portion – my work.) Anyway, my point is thus. When those little USB sticks came to market I thought, “What the hell? This ain’t no floppy disk.” And, yes. That is pretty much the last time I really backed up in earnest. So sue me, you apparent midnight-every-night-secretly-sneaking-home-and-backing-up-your-work-morons. Right now I really, frankly, just hate you and don’t want your opinions. What really got me? The phone call to my parents where I got the (should have expected) response of “Suck it up girly,” from my mother. Ah, the tenderness. The love. Thanks mom.

Yes, dear readers. I know this is all my fault and complaining about it won’t bring my computer back to life or somehow find me the money to replace Stevie (RIP Stevie McLaptoppy Sunshine, devoted and beloved electronic note taker of my inane and incessant thoughts. 2008 -2012.) But that knowledge sure as hell won’t stop me from running my mouth. Not my style to quietly take the beatings life doles out. No, no. The guts of my computer are my guts. You know? To go through all of what is inside is to know me, where I’ve been and what I thought about it all along the way. It’s not just drafts of a book that will never be published. It is a time capsule. Well, it was … in the end I managed to recover and save to a USB the vital components of this electronic reflection of my little life. My unfinished book, anything I had ever written about Jeff and every picture of Jonah I could sniff out from within the rubble.  What goes down with the ship is countless half-started thoughts, stories and memories. Personal pictures and design files. Love letters from lovers past and present, and finally the machine itself that I have toted around like an extension of myself since my days at college. My computer represented a time when I finally grasped what it was I was going to do the rest of my life without hesitation or fear. And that was to write and the prospect of not having a way to do that feels very hurtful. Also, let me quell the open mouths saying, “But you can blog from your phone!” or “You can use your Hubby’s computer,” (a personal favourite piece of advice from my brother, “Why don’t you use a pen and paper? Duh!”) and anything else that may be misconstrued as helpful. It isn’t, ok? Perhaps it is and will always be too much to ask for, but I am the kind of person who needs her own computer in order to write openly, freely and honestly without having the shadow of embarrassment follow. I think everyone needs their own space somehow and this is just how I need mine.

Hubby and I have gone over the numbers and sought out financing options, trying to make our budget work for buying me some salvation but it has been to no avail. My husband being the sensitive soul thinks we should buy me the laptop of my dreams regardless of financial status, but my guilty conscience won’t abide.  Yet, cut to me mere days ago at the Toys r’us and you would see a completely unburdened conscience just a freewheelin’. Hubby said at one point, “How are you planning on getting all of this back to the car, babe?” At least I think he said it. I couldn’t see him behind the mountain of trinkets we bought for Jonah. Somehow the faculties that either justify or lower the kibosh on my own purchases isn’t the part of me that is responsible for giving me a level head when it comes to buying Jonah the world, apparently. The mommy in me from day one has been saying, “Anything for you, Kid.” And, this is a very bad mantra to be repeating because I am going against the advice my Baba (mother of FOUR. Ugh.) gave me and that was basically something along the lines of, “You don’t need anything fancy to raise baby.” Apparently just myself, some towels and hot water will do. Oi, Baba.

So turns out priorities really do change. But my giving nature intact, even if we are always living pay cheque to pay cheque, Jonah will want for nothing.

This will be the second post now that I’ve prepared far from my cosy spot on the bed with Stevie just a glowing away. The last entry I managed to type out and post within four bloody hours on my husband’s Mac. A computer I now want to run over with my car. Why the hell can’t you freaking side-click on a damn Mac? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU APPLE PEOPLE?! It is a wonder I got anything to post prepared because I almost flung myself and the Mac off our balcony in a fit of rage. I’m a PC user? Can you tell? This post is coming together via email and smartphone, something I will never be attempting to do again if I want to keep my sanity. Right about now that pen and paper jab from my ever- hilarious brother is looking more and more like a viable option. Journals don’t have hard disk issues. I like this. That’s a big “screw you” to technology. Love, me.

In the end I don’t think much will change around here if I write less and blog even more infrequently. I’ll still endeavour to sit down and write something, somehow. And you know what? It will probably work out the same with or without a computer to call my own: half-written prose sitting on the coffee table soon to be forgotten, me with a wailing baby in one arm the other madly swatting at the cat to get her to stop eating my oatmeal. Ah, life. How did you get so good?

If any of my readers out there are independently wealthy and have a heart of gold and are interested in sending me a cheque my address is as follows,

#101 – Sad Gal Towers

2727 Dontknownobackup Lane

Screwyoumacville, Canada

Once again, thanks for reading Lovies.