Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Presario, the new man in my life

I am really not one of those people who crave stuff, I never have been. As I’ve aged, stuff even begins to stifle my thought process. Because of this I’m feeling a bit guilty about my devotion to my new computer. I’ve only had it for five days but my obsession has grown worse since I found out his name.

Someone asked me the other day the computer’s model so I looked through the paperwork (though now I see it is written on the machine itself) and found out that it has the beautiful, drip off your tongue name of Presario. He looks like his name, my Presario. He’s dark and sexy and very efficient, but in an unnoticeable way, as an afterthought, no hard work involved. He prefers his time spent on more enjoyable things, my Presario. Lounging in the sun, drinking bright red cocktails with fruit and paper umbrellas likely plays a large role in Presario’s life. It’s a shame really he is stuck here working on TV scripts and science textbooks. I feel a bit guilty about that. As compensation, I will attempt to write a poem later. With a lot of imagery; palm trees and sweet scented breezes. He might feel better about that.

I love his keys the most. I love the feel of them on my fingers and the light click-click sound they make after years of building my finger muscles on the dusty keyboard of my iMac, where the ‘I’ key stuck or the keys of the family’s PC in which the whole bottom row had been wiped off so typing a v-b-n- or m was all a game of chance. No- Presario has sexy, inviting keys. I’m not sure yet if the keys have improved my writing, I have a feeling they might have.

He also had the most unusual game inside. It has sadly disappeared now; I think it was a welcome home present for Presario. It was a game where you get to be God over a small village of people who start as complete idiots. You move the people around to try and get them to learn the things that you as their deity know they must. You even get to pair them up to make babies, though sometimes that proves unsuccessful. I felt bad when that happened because instead of just saying, “No thank you, I’d rather not” the villagers would run away from their potential sex partners as if they bite. That has got to be hard on the ego. I had intended to teach them better manners but the time ran out.

The most wonderful thing about this game, much like the real world, when the computer was turned off and God (me- please try to follow) was no longer paying attention, the villagers still got on with things. When you’d turn the computer back on and check them, the babies would have grown up and the adults would have learned to plant crops. It really was wonderful. Sadly, I haven’t seen my village for three days now. I can only wonder what they’re up to, how their kids have grown, what skills they’ve developed, if they’ve cleaned up that dirty beach of theirs. Presario likely knows the answers to my many questions, but he’s keeping quiet about it. I’m not holding it against him though.


Anonymous said...

Every girl should have a Presario. LOL.

Lauri said...

I am telling you girl- I am addicted to this thing. All I want to do is type. I even volunteered to type my son's project and I don't even like typing!

Karen said...

I had a Presario (it's almost 10 years old and no longer works) and yeah... it was MAGIC! The sound the keys made were music to my ears.

Honestly, I cannot work on a computer with a funky sounding keyboard. The touch is just as important, too.

That game sounds like a riot. I wonder if it's downloadable from the web for any old computer user. Like I need something else besides my writing to keep me from doing things around the house. LOL!

Lauri said...

Oh Karen say it ain't so! A Presario giving out? It's hard to hear that your super heroes are falliable.

Yes! Virtual Village is on the internet I found it! I'm waiting for the weekend to see if I can down load it. I have a very slow dialup connection. I'm wondering if I will find my same people or they'll all be strangers. I'll keep you posted.

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