My four-year-old warrior of a Thinkpad started sending me warnings of a failing hard drive last month. Being in the middle of writing a tv series is not the best time to have a hard drive failure. So today I am writing on a new Thinkpad. The old one – which was brilliant and Just Worked – was a 14-inch machine. This one is a 15.6-inch machine, because I liked the idea of having just a little bit more screen. I forgot that the keyboard would come with a numberpad. Which 14-inch machines generally don’t. So everything I have four-year muscle-memory of is shoved a couple of inches to the left. This means that I’ve been typing like a seal for a day, trying to burn in the new memory while hitting \ instead of the shift key every twenty seconds.
The old machine is in my desk drawer, right under the desktop the new one is sitting on. It still works. It will probably work forever. The hard drive failure warning was a test of love and loyalty. I have failed it. I am a monster. I will die alone, with only the voiceless, heartless blank stare of a new laptop that is wrong by two inches to witness my lonely, deserved passing.
Below is a recent photo of the old laptop and its battle scars.