Forgive me, Bill, for I have sinned

I feel dirty.  Covered with the stench of guilt and infidelity.   Right now, I am in Weir Hall, and I am typing this blog entry on....oh, gorrammit, I'm so ashamed....a Mac.

And I like it.

     Ross is right, Macs are sexy.  I like its curves.  I like the little apple.  I like the spiffy keyboard and the sound the keys make.  That's a big thing for me, the keyboard sounds.  It's one of the small pleasures in life, to hear yourself pounding out whatever opus you have going on whether it be email, novel, or, just for instance, a blog.  

     I tend to talk a lot of shit about Macs.  I don't know how to work them, and I sort of resent their campaign tactics.  Like using a Mac will make you original when every single person on TV and movies uses one.  Have you ever noticed that?  I have not seen a PC on a TV screen in years.  Another reason I'm suspicious of Macs.  Also, I hate the mouse.  I mean why would you mess with something so simple and wondrous as the right click?

     I suppose the fight between PCs and Macs comes down to something simple.  The simple and utilitarian vs. the flashy and gimmicky.  Me and this Mac?  It's just a fling?  In a minute, I won't be able to work the word processor, and I'll go home to the comfort of my Gateway.

     Oh, PC, you unappreciated housewife.

     Oh, Mac, you fake-boobed cocktail waitress.