Primal Shock Therapy

My MacBook died. It took a while, but it died. To top it off, the trackpad button never did work, so I got authorization to send it back to the vendor. They declared it skunked and said they’d ship a new one. It was supposed to arrive today, and it did, or something did.

I opened the box… AAGGHHH!!! It was my old MacBook! I recognized every scratch. The invoice inside the box said “replacement under warranty, new, factory-sealed,” but it wasn’t so. Nope.

“You??? You’re not GOOD ENOUGH to have a new computer!”

AAGGHHH!!!

My worst widdle-boy nightmare confirmed. They took my pony away because I was bad. I’m so bad. Bad, bad boy. Urk.

Okay, they made a mistake.

I know they’ll fix it pronto.

It could have happened to anyone.

But man, talk about your “special moments.” This is like burying your dog and finding the disinterred remains wagging its tail at your door a week later. Stirs the ole umbilical cord whack aftermath, it does, and don’t try this at home unless you have a private stash of opiates or a coconut cream pie in the fridge (and plenty of ice-cold milk).

I think I’ll hang onto the Deadbook until the new one gets here. “Show me the merchandise!” and all that. But now I’m scared: what if I end up with TWO OLD MACBOOKS, each one scratched in exactly the same places, the same little shiny patches on their little trackpads?!?

Mercy.