judging by the hole in the satellite picture

i know i am a luddite, but i’m sure the hatred goes both ways. technology despises me. my ipod has a self-destruct button (namely, the big round one in the middle). my experia responds to the fabric of my jeans pocket but not my fingers. my laptop tells me, ‘ah, screw you. oh wait. you know what? your bloody essay too’.

the other day my parents bought themselves cameras. i was all sniffly about it. ‘what’s the point of a good camera? you’ve got eyes, you’ve got memory, and you’ve got nostalgia to photoshop whatever you choose to remember.’ but needless to say i was simply being crabby. me buying a camera would be a waste of money; that argument extends no further.

so, back in singapore and scowling at my ipod, i try my hand at cpr. the blackout with the apple logo in the center is as hopeless as the windows blue screen of death. i swallow the urge to hurl the offending turd at my wall, but with each failure i sense primal rage taking over. no, i must assert myself. technology has done me no justice. but, if i’m gonna eventually give in and pay for repairs, i mustn’t break the bloody thing. so i toss the ipod on my bed and sit very vehemently on it. neither evil nor good transpires. i am futility embodied.

so i acquiesce. a month ago, when my ipod first started getting cranky, i used my voice recorder. that was like calling a pager a handphone – and my ultra-chic friends in tokyo never forgave me for that – but i owe my graduation to that scrap of metal. after all, it had recordings of some important civil law lectures i attended, recordings i listened to on various sleepless nights. today, in ditching the ipod and adopting the voice recorder as my first choice, i gleefully delete all lectures, and suddenly realise i only have 15 songs available. so i start itunes, try to load more music. no luck. my laptop says there is something wrong with the usb connection.

too tired to hurl the damn thing against the wall, i head for lunch. not a long journey. my very short playlist does not have to repeat itself, and out comes the ecstasy that is the red hot chili peppers, smash mouth, oasis, slash, eric clapton, guns and roses… before long i catch myself singing along. the bus is a mobile babel, all myriad ethnicities and intimate distance. the sun is out. were i to complain, i’d just be less than grateful.

– kats on thursday

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