What can flare the temper of your patience to the point that it enrolls itself in anger management classes? What got it hooked on the powerful addiction of nicotine in order to relieve its stress levels? From what did your patience’s high blood pressure stem? How did it come close to checking itself into an insane asylum, or jumping off a bridge? Why does it now have to find gratification through the practice of yoga to tap into its inner peace and happiness? All of this is because of one word with three syllables that works triple overtime to take three years off everybody’s life with each use: Computers.
In an unsteady job market where workers fear being laid off at any given moment, you, computer, do your job as if it’s a government position where you’re employed for life no matter how well you perform. I would compare your execution of job tasks as the DMV employee of technology—irritable with a side of irregular bowel syndrome. When face to face with me the user, it is apparent that your sassy, inconsiderate, do-as-you-please attitude is the real blood flow that motherboards the operating system. A phrase I like to use whenever I introduce the Windows Vista and Windows 7 sistas. You come to work sporting baggage in the form of useless updates that cause more drama than a circle of high school teenage girls. The newer you become the more likely you are to fold under pressure like a shirt on a shelf at a retail clothing store. One minute, you interact with me at speeds greater than the speech of a rambling auctioneer, the next, you become that of one who suffers from extreme social anxiety and hides behind Bill Gates’ pants leg like a shy child. If I did my job as inconsistently as you did yours, I would be the recipient of the falling axe another jobless claim statistic. You gave me that look on your face that read, “Program not responding” after that last statement. Let me put it to you this way, you better count your blessings that you know how to sit at my desk and look pretty, or else you’d be out on the streets learning how to interior decorate a garbage dumpster.
Are you aware how many gray hairs you have given my patience? If you owned stock in Just for Men hair dye, you’d be a very rich machine. My patience drops expletives in complete sentences with a little cherry on top in the form a few exclamation points. It learned how to count to ten at an early age in order to secrete the pent up hostility. That was right around the time when you made yourself available to home users in the form of Windows 1.0 version on Microsoft's amateur night. The patience that I have practices the second amendment religiously throughout the day when diplomacy between you and it has gone awry. A finger on its hand whose trigger instinct has been ranked number one by J.D. Power & Associates for countless years in a row. Giving its liver swimming lessons on the deep end in the pool of alcohol, you have been seamless in your effort to drown its body organ by delays more recurring than an eye-rolling character on the show of Glee. You try to kiss and make up to my patience by automatically having all my programs in previous condition after my patience introduces its friends the 10 toes of death and kicks you in the watoosy—also known as the reboot.
So, don’t even consider putting my patience down as a reference if you are ever in the job market search. It would, however, compose a letter of recommendation; especially if it were to promote you to the latest series of Trojan viruses that are waiting on the street corners of the information highway just waiting to jump you. Keep that in mind whenever you are tempted to unbridle your scatter brain, show up late for work, or call in sick, Mr. Computer.
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