I didn't run away with my laptop, made famous by the New York Times, although I'd still like to.
I approach her a little differently each day, knowing that in a few days she'll be in someone else's hands. No control over this one. Nothing I can do. I don't look at her the same way anymore, knowing she's not mine. I write here. Sure. But it's not the same. It's tentative. temporary. flat now. I'm noticing her flaws--the popcorn pieces stuck under the CTRL key, the crack in the frame of the screen, right on the "e," that makes the word "Latitude" look like "Lattitud." I don't know how, when that happened. I'd never even noticed it. Or the other specks of dirt and lint wedged in the corners of the mouse pad.
Never noticed before because she belonged to me. She was mine. She was perfect. Never hung on me. Never a problem, never a virus.
Just don't feel like writing. Maybe later. More research to do.
