I’m cheating on you. I have been for a while.
I’m sorry. I caved. The flesh is weak, and so are my computer’s circuit boards. Frankly, though, you left me with no choice. I waited as long as I could. I even thought maybe you could change.
Foolish, foolish me. In the end — it was I who changed.
For once upon a time, you had me at Black-Scholes. One upon a time we consummated a long, passionate affair on my Mac as I pounded out case write-up after case write-up… as I calculated put-call parities like there was no strike price. I could condition your format. Synthesize your data. Ride in your PowerPoint rodeo. Track your changes.
I even graduated. And you were still there for me, through the on-going reconciliation of bidness-speakese with plotting and character and showing-not-telling. For two whole years, I managed to deal with your issues.
But.
But then you crashed. Nothing. Not a Word from you for days. Days stretched into a week. Still nothing. Nothing but the rivers of tears you caused when I lost days worth of sheer, unparalleled brilliance and artistry. When I lost my escape from the cruel, cruel corporate world of 8-6.
So what was I supposed to do, Microsoft? I tried to resolve our problems through IT, and no one had any answers. Microsoft, my darling, what options did I really have? Tell me!
But maybe it was my fault. Maybe I relied on you too heavily. Or maybe it was the lies you told. A Code 35 here. A little Code 47 there.
So to you, I finally must say: “‘Fatal error,’ Microsoft, I ‘could not recover.’”
My initial reluctance to accept our problems was outweighed by extreme annoyance and frustration. Because — yes. What you’ve heard is true. Open Office v3.1.1 is up and running on my platform. OO is intuitive, [sometimes] anticipates my spelling needs, and lying against its Linux-compatible bosom is ever so strangely familiar.
But — but — but! I want you back, Microsoft.
Even though you won’t load, and, ironically, even though you won’t uninstall… I’m daydreaming about pivot table hacking skills with Excel. Fantasizing about my ninja-like PowerPoint prowess. About my future Outlook. About playing with fonts and footnotes in Word.
I’m sick, I tell you. Sick. Sick. SICK.
Yours in Mac,
Me
P.S. Call me?
