I spent years learning how to be Miss Independence. I studied hard so I could have my own brain. I work hard so I have my own money. I manage my own banking, and can check my own oil (not that I ever do) and pump my own petrol. Occasionally I catch something other than seaweed when I go fishing with my brothers, and they make me do all the ukky stuff (like put a hook through the eye of a frozen bait fish-GROSS) myself. I can even fix the three different leaks in the shower of my brother’s guest bathroom without any help from him. I can do all this and still walk in six inch heels. So why is it then, that when a virus invades my computer all I want to do is cry and/or call every man in my contact list?

 

Yesterday, I’m still not sure how, I was virtually attacked, or rather, attacked in the virtual word. Some nasty little societal parasite gave me a virus that made my laptop lose the virtual plot and me the literal one. Spyware alarms went off every where, Internet Explorer had a stroke and the program I downloaded to play penicillin to this rampart infection was a twisted mind’s wicked attempt to crush what healthy spirit I had left-it was a secondary stage of the virus disguised to make you think it will help, but in fact will just make you sicker; the fine line between medicine and poison.

There are forty-zillion (accurate count) tradesmen outside my window, together they can build towns, but scream “Does anyone know how to bypass an XP Protection spyware virus?” and they will simply give you a look of ‘does not compute’. At least the extremely pissed off look on my face firewalled any sad antibiotic jokes.

 

I hate to admit anything that resembles co-dependency, but my laptop and I are beyond linked. If I could marry my laptop I would, and Blackberry would be our love child. We have a complicated relationship. She can be moody and often doesn’t feel like doing what she’s been asked until after she’s slept on the idea. Her battery doesn’t last as long as some, but she’s never lost any of my files and loyally puts up with me working late nights. So, when she’s sick, my world just doesn’t seem right. Even if I wasn’t planning on seeing her much that night, knowing all isn’t right in her world, that something is INVADING her inner most software, is enough to bring me to violence against the virtual world. I called my mum for help and got little love, one brother was sympathetic and nothing more, the other offered to play doctor if I took her to see him later in the week. None of this was helpful, my baby was sick, and I kept visualizing the virus eating away at her circuitry with every passing moment. I needed help, now. I scrolled through my phone contacts, searching for anyone that might have half a hope of curing my laptop. There it was, the number for my little Maltese warrior. I called and within moments he was on to the company’s top IT guy, getting real solutions for my cyber-infection.

 

My laptop will live to see another day, but only after a full format is done. For now, she’s well enough to get through the day relatively effectively. It’s sort of like finishing the full course of anti-biotics despite feeling well again. Still I can’t help but ask, ‘weren’t the problems of this world enough for a girl to deal with, weren’t we just getting the hang of this one, why did we feel the need to invent another one?’ I get the feeling it was a devious plan by men everywhere for us to need them again, and not just to keep them around to do the things that our laptops can’t… like lift heavy things onto the high shelf.

I hate the virtual world.