Killing My Computer. ( No Computers Were Killed In The Writing Of This Tale)

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Let me begin by saying that I am not a violent person. I don’t go around smashing things, shouting at strangers, or threatening inanimate objects with physical harm. 
Except, of course, when it comes to my computer, which has pushed me to levels of rage normally reserved for people who cut in line at the post office.

My computer — a machine allegedly designed to “make life easier” — has instead become a sort of digital emotional‑support gremlin whose primary function is to ruin my day. I don’t know what I did to offend it. Maybe I clicked something too hard. Maybe I breathed on it wrong. Maybe it simply woke up and chose violence. All I know is that every time I sit down to do something simple, like check my email or look up whether cheese can legally be mailed across state lines, the computer decides to enter Defensive Hostility Mode.

This is the mode where it freezes, thinks about its life choices, and then displays a spinning wheel that looks like it’s trying to hypnotise me into accepting my fate. The wheel spins. And spins. And spins. Meanwhile, I age visibly. Archaeologists could carbon‑date me by the time the thing loads.

And of course, when it finally does load, it opens every program I’ve ever used since 2009, including ones I’m pretty sure I uninstalled. Suddenly I’ve got seventeen windows, three pop‑ups, and a mysterious error message that says something like:

“SYSTEM FAILURE: Unknown problem in Unknown Location. Press OK to ignore.”

Ignore? IGNORE? That’s like a pilot saying, “One of the wings fell off, but let’s not dwell on it.”

Naturally, I try to fix the problem by clicking things. This is a mistake. Clicking things only encourages the computer. It senses fear. It senses weakness. It senses that I am one bad pop‑up away from throwing it into the garden.

At this point, the computer begins making noises. Not normal computer noises like “whirr” or “click.” No. My computer makes noises like a small, asthmatic goat trapped inside a metal box. It wheezes. It groans. It emits a sound that can only be described as “electronic despair.” This is the computer’s way of saying:

“I’m dying. But I’m taking you with me.”

So I do what any rational adult would do: I shout at it.

“WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?”

The computer, being a computer, does not answer. Instead, it displays a helpful message:

“Your computer will restart to finish installing updates.”

Updates? UPDATES? I didn’t ask for updates. I didn’t approve updates. I didn’t even look at updates. But apparently the computer has decided that right now — this exact moment, when I desperately need to print something — is the perfect time to reinvent itself.

So it restarts. And restarts. And restarts. At one point it reaches 97%, then jumps back to 12%, which I’m pretty sure violates several laws of mathematics.

By now I am pacing the room like a man awaiting the results of a medical test. I consider calling tech support, but tech support always asks the same question:

“Have you tried turning it off and on again?”

Yes. I have turned it off and on so many times that the power button is now concave. I have rebooted this machine more often than I have rebooted my own life.

Finally — FINALLY — the computer restarts. The desktop appears. The icons load. The system stabilises. I breathe a sigh of relief.

And then the computer displays one final message:

“We couldn’t complete the updates. Undoing changes.”

Undoing changes.  
UNDOING.  
CHANGES.

This is the moment I realise the computer is not malfunctioning.  
It is mocking me.

So yes, I am killing my computer. Not literally — I’m not a monster — but spiritually. Emotionally. Philosophically. I am unplugging it, walking away, and letting it think about what it’s done.

And tomorrow, when I turn it back on, it will behave perfectly for five minutes…  
…just long enough to lull me into a false sense of security.Because that’s what computers do.They break you slowly.  
With love.


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