butt out

When it comes to the hard drive, I have a strict, take-no-prisoners policy. Files don’t linger. They get deleted, booosh. I’m aware of their importance, I know they’re useful, but they gum up the works.

I’m not completely batty, though; I keep back-ups. Although they, too, are subject to the occasional scrub and, whoops, there go some safeties. Then what, right? Well, I kick myself, insult my own intelligence, and then I stop speaking to me. It’s a pattern and I’ve learned to accept it.

The part that pisses me off is the trash telling me I don’t have permission to delete a file. Oh? Do tell. Whose permission do I need to delete my file from my computer in my home? God’s? Apple’s? The ethernet? Who? And how, is there a form to submit? Computers have some nerve, you know? They think they’re in charge of the world.

And that’s the real downside to technology, not hacking. Computers and smartphones and even some applications are way too big for their britches. Adobe, the dirty rats, went and squeezed out the competition and gained complete control of every aspect of digital design programming in the process. Now, if you want to use their precious software, they demand a monthly payment in perpetuity and unfettered access to your computer in return.

You can’t buy Photoshop or Illustrator any more. No, you’re forced to rent and allow access to your system through the Internet connection. Snidely Whiplash is alive and well and going by the name of Adobe.

Well, nert nert nert, get this. I have my old Photoshop and InDesign software on my old computer, the one without an Internet connection. When I fire up the laptop, Adobe launches a fevered search for the connection and I gleefully, joyously watch it fail. Ha!, take that, you lowdown snakes in the grass.

I don’t ask much of digital devices, but enough is enough: lay off the nagging. Stop telling me what to do and when to do it and how. Stop changing my spelling; stop reminding me to pay the car insurance, of birthdays and anniversaries; stop trying to anticipate my every thought and action. Save your batteries; just sit there and shut up. You aren’t the boss of me.

And, for pete’s sake, stay out of the damn trash. The raccoons are getting cheesed, too.

copyright © 2017 little ittys

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