Prodigal dream

No word yet about my prodigal computer.

But I'm sure she's going to come back to me wearing an amazing technicolour dreamsuit*. It's going to be a teary-eyed reunion that's for sure. We will run toward each other (yes, appendages akimbo) — her dreamsuit flapping in the wind with little musical notes trailing off it like audible bubbles; my Frye boots sprinting the ground like a new-born colt, or fillie, or whatever little baby horses are called.

When we embrace like long lost sisters, it's going to be beautiful.

And then I'll frickin' slap her. And tell her to never ever do that to me again.

I'll cry how could you do this to me? Me — the person who clothed you, fed you, sang you sleep every night and occasionally jacked up your RAM.

*I have no idea what Joseph's suit looked like or why he was wearing one, but I do know that my computer's technical-colour wardrobe will be magical! No more keyboard for entering text — what I think will simply appear... perfectly edited. No more tiny grains of sand in hourglasses reminding me that time is slipping away. No more burning plastic. She will trail the faint scent of lavender or violet, cook me dinners and make my bed.