Satan does exist. Now, let me tell you why.
Disclaimer: This is not a politically correct entry. So if you’re easily offended, go watch Oprah or something.
So my computer is sick. I’m not typing on my computer; I’m using my roommate’s. My computer is old. She’s close to retirement. She gets sleepy, and she just turns off without warning. This week, she’s been bad. It’s been worse since I’m freelancing full time. Ye old computer gets a lot of action nowadays. Over the course of a day, she has more hands on her than a stripper at 2 AM. So she’s in revolt. She’s turning off every fifteen minutes, and yesterday, I took her to the doctor.
The dude at CompuZone looked at my computer and said, “Yeah, I can run a diagnostic. Get her back to you in about five days.” Point blank, I said, “Are you insane? Five days? Why not five months? How about five DECADES, huh?” Like the disgruntled little child I occasionally can be, I stomped out, muttering inappropriate curse words on CompuZone’s front stoop, inciting raised eyebrows from the dry cleaning guy next door.
My next option? Call HP tech support. I hate talking to robot voices. By the end of the initial phone call, I’m screaming “Option 1! Option 2! Do you understand me you bleeping-blippity-blonker?” This is the error of tech support. The actual human beings don’t have a chance, because by the time we—the consumer—reach them—the techie nerds—we are so fiery hot with anger, we can barely speak. So I finally get on the phone with a human being. Here’s the part about why I know Satan does, in fact, exist.
I can’t understand the techie guy.
This is no fault of Jefferson’s. (Yeah, his name is Jefferson. Weird, right?) Jefferson is innocent. He just wants to help, but he’s also very far away in a foreign country with an accent that is probably considered barely there by his country’s standards. By my standards, I feel like I’m back in junior year of college Algebra. Remember? That semester when I had to TEACH a bunch of other kids MATH because our teacher was so FOREIGN, we couldn’t understand him. And we were PAYING TUITION for THAT? To have me—a Creative Writing major—teach a classroom MATH? Back to Jefferson, the poor guy can tell I’m frustrated. I’m cussing under my breath as he tells me they’re going to bill me a one-time charge of $49.99 (does the 99 really fool anyone? It’s fifty bucks) to fix my computer over the phone. I make him promise this is going to work, and then, I tell him that if it doesn’t work, he’s lucky he’s too far away for me to FIND.
We do the run around for about forty-five minutes. There’s a lot of him spelling things, because like I said, I can’t understand anything. Then, there are a lot of long pauses, because I can tell, Jefferson doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. We hang up, and he says my computer is fixed. That was yesterday.
Today, my computer is definitely NOT FIXED, JEFFERSON! I call Jefferson back. (His own personal curse that I know his name…) He takes remote control of my sick, old computer, and there is nothing weirder than watching my computer move on its own. This is the 2010 equivalent of Poltergeist, and I can just hear that little blond brat saying, “They’re heeeeeeeeeeeere.” This lasts two hours.
Did I mention I’m a freelancer? Time is money, and I might as well be burning dollar bills. Time moves along, and I’m stranded, watching a stranger open and close applications and web pages while coasting over a picture of my boyfriend and me on my desktop background. It could be weirder. Imagine what this Jefferson guy has seen—probably porn on some teenage dude’s laptop, maybe a swastika from a skinhead’s Mac, or worse, Hannah Montana.
About halfway through this marathon of tech support, my cell phone dies, and Jefferson is gone. It’s about here where I start crying. And it is here when I realize Satan exists, and it’s all because of HP’s tech support. Who else, but Satan, would devise such torture? Who else would force a bunch of angry, impatient Americans to call a foreign country, for help navigating a foreign planet—cyberspace—from none other than a foreign dude who might as well be speaking Tele-Tubby? Who else would make it so impossible to just get a straight answer? To get a quick fix?
There is additional evidence of Satan. There is the United States Postal Service. There are airports. There is the process of buying individual health insurance, and yes, there is Oprah. However, in the past twenty-four hours, I have come to realize that evil does exist, and I have faced it dead on. If you don’t believe me, download some random virus. Crash your computer, and then, call for help. No one will hear you. This, my friends, is what hell must be like. “Just say Option 3 for the pit of eternal despair…”