When I named my computer after Marvin of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," I really should have known better. It seemed like a good idea at the time, since his case is black, and his brain is quite impossibly large when compared to the capacity of his predecessor, Moouack. But personality often comes along when one has a name, and recently, Marvin has been displaying new traits that I rather he wouldn't.
At one point, Marvin reverted to the "Windows Classic" style for all windows and buttons. When I investigated further, I found that the default "Windows XP" look was completely gone. It was no longer there. System restores to dates prior to this could not bring it back. What, then, could I conclude other than this: Marvin must have talked to that poor, poor Option, and depressed it so much it went off and committed suicide.
His vibrating issue used to be intermittent, so that when we took him to the Computer Doctors a year or two ago, the men there found nothing and made up something random to make me feel better. But it's now nearly constant. I'm not an email addict, nor do I often visit AIM these days, but I am still quite computer-dependent, so Marvin's increasingly unpredictable nature stresses me.
She threw herself at the woman, hands locking around her neck, momentum tossing her opponent into the shallow closet behind them. "If I could kill you," she hissed, "I would kill you a thousand times over!" She trembled with barely contained rage at this woman's presumption. She could not wait for her man any longer. She had to go. She had to go now. And so she left, walking so quickly she nearly flew, down the stairs with the painted metal banister, down into the night, through the parking lot, staring at the orange-lit shopping mall across the street with eyes that did not see. She turned to her right and kept on going.
Her rage was only slightly diminished. She could not stop walking. It was day now, and she traveled down an uneven sidewalk on the high shore of a trash-filled river. She could not stop. A car drove by, she recognized it as theirs, hers and his, that small dark sedan they shared. He called out from the window for her to stop. His voice, his voice! She could tell that he had been afraid for her. He had been terrified that he would never find her again. But when she thought of that other woman, her fury blossomed anew. She turned sharply on her heel and went in the other direction in an unstoppable reflex. He, however, would not have it. He turned the vehicle, drove a little ways ahead of her, and used the car to block the sidewalk. He got out and stood there, unsure of what to do now that he had made his declaration.
She stopped. At the sight of his form, her anger was overwhelmed by a terrible longing, for she had missed him terribly. Two steps, three steps, she broke into a run, and upon reaching him, held on to him tightly. She pressed her face into his chest.