This damn thing is driving me crazy. It's a magic that seems to evade my every attempt to grasp, to understand. I need a PC version of Hermione Granger, that kid Wizardy chick whom that Potter bloke will wish he had nailed when he's 30 with a pot belly. I need someone like her, technologically adept in the extreme, to spell this mess out for me.
Yellow wire with the purple dongle connects to the red input port with the 9-pin slot.
To install, click on the clown, poke his nose three times, type in "load", dance in place and begin to meditate in transcendentalism.
This friggin' thing is going to be the death of me, I know it. I bought it to play games, to view pictures, to take me to other worlds I've never before thought possible through the great digital miasma some of you kids call the Internet. Instead, I'm pulling my hair out in clumps and wishing for a typewriter with "Royal" written on the side of it. I want to do my taxes on a computer and print them out on nice, white bond paper just like my accountant does- for free. But this thing defies my every meager, futile attempt at learning its hidden secrets.
I type "Help" into the command line, which took me three hours to find, and I get more gobbledy-gook, the PC version of Greek ("You can use your computer to translate any known human language!" Ha. What a snow job that turned out to be!).
When I first turned this damn thing on, the screen was huge. So huge, in fact, that those icon thingies seemed like they were a mile away. I played with them some, the screen turned blue and demanded that I do something called a "reboot." I hesitated before kicking it and chose, instead, to just turn it off in frustration. When I turned it back on the next morning, the screen was huge, but in a different way. Now I'm looking at the icons so closely that, if they were human, I'd probably blush.
I know that this thing can work, this magical box of blinking lights and whirring noises. I saw my 6-year-old make it practically sit up and beg last night. There's this program, a picture editor (I work as a photographer), and I try to open it up- only to get this friendly note telling me that the system as performed a critical error (how does something or someone perform a critical anything?) in "memory allocation unit (some unbelievably long number)". Well, at least I know that it can do math and it knows what numbers are. That's good, I guess.
I feel like the reverse Mary Poppins, a congenital retard trying work a complex political system.
I hate computers, but I love what they can do.