iSlut

My beloved iMac is dying, or something. It's taken to powering down at the slightest whisper of activity and the only way I can revive the poor thing is to unplug it and wait 20 horrible, horrible minutes before I can attempt to print out an e-mail before it dies again. My computer has developed a delicate constitution.

After a $20 cab ride to the Apple Store, I set my baby down on the Genius Bar to let a stranger tinker with her unmentionables. I explain the problem and in an attempt to recreate the failure I suggest we plug in my phone to shock the poor thing into passing out. As my fellow iPhone havers out there know, when you plug in the device two programs automatically open up: iTunes and iPhoto.

A flash comes to me. What were the last photos I had up on there before it died? That would be a lot of Half-Naked Thursday photos of me in various stages of undress and a few self-portraits of my vagina. The Genius Bar was pretty full for a Sunday morning and that 20-inch screen was open to all of the other bitter enthusiasts waiting behind me.

"Uh, let me just see something here." I half-laugh in a panic as I frantically turn the computer away from my Genius and stand to shield the screen with my body. "Not sure what photos are going to pop up, ya know? Ha, ha, ha..."

I peek down and low and behold, mixed in between a series of photos of bonsai tress from the National Arboretum was a whole lot of skin. My skin.

"Ha, ha. Let me just shut off iPhoto."

The genius smiled, but looked unfazed. They must see this sort of thing all the time. But handing over my computer was handing over myself: my work, my money, bits and pieces of my family and friends, the last few suspect Google searches, each naughty bookmark, the carefully sorted folders of pornography, my embarrassing half-assed attempts at writing fiction, my crushes, my heart breaks. They're all in there, trapped in this 20 pound aluminum and glass body that's failing on me and I'm handing her over to strangers.

But I remind myself, they don't care about all that and I don't really care if they did. They don't have time for all of that. They just want to fix it. Anyway, they probably have more porn on their hard drives than I do. He theorized about the possible problems and made a plan of action. I glanced at the iTunes window. Playlist item two:

Blow Job Mix.