I'm a cuh-cuh-cuh-cuh-crackhead

Remember the other day when I mentioned that my laptop was dying a slow, painful death?

Guess what happened yesterday?

Code blue! Code blue! Get the crash cart!

It's like the damn thing thought,

"You dare insult my PC-ness? Who the hell do you think you are, talking about replacing me with another laptop or a Mac? A Mac?! Do you know who I am? I'm an intelligent being, dammit and you hurt my feelings. Don't you know what I could do to you? I am your lifeline to the outside world and you go and talk smack about me. That's it, we're through. I'm outie."

Fuuuuuhhhck.

A couple of weeks ago Chicky Baby pulled my laptop off of the couch where it usually sits, keeping my seat warm for me, and like a piece of buttered toast falling buttered side down the thing inevitably fell straight down on the power cord. I was able to rig it just so to keep giving juice (or, life blood, as I like to think of it) to my computer until Halloween night. I awoke the next morning to find a cold, dead computer. Flatlined. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Time of death - who the hell cares?! My computer won't come back on!

I started getting the shakes immediately.

I knew I was attached to my computer but I had no idea the depth of my dependence on that stupid black box until I didn't have it to kick around any more. Ain't that always the way?

It was so bad that I had to beg my husband for five minutes with his laptop, just five minutes, puhleeeeaze, just five minutes. I need to publish my Blog Exchange post. I need to check my email. I need to write about the loves of my blog life. I need to write other blog posts because I have great fodder. I need to surf for celebrity gossip. I need, I need, I need....

What I need is help. An intervention perhaps?

Hi, I'm Mrs. Chicky and I'm a computer-holic.

I am proud to say that I stopped short of offering sexual favors in return for precious minutes with a computer. And today the new power cable arrived in the mail (um, just a second... Fuck you and your proprietary self, Dell. I had to next day ship the sucker because you don't sell your parts at places like Circuit City. Fuck you very much.) so I won't be greeting Mr. C at the door wearing nothing but cellophane and a smile, ready to do what needs to be done to tire him out so he won't notice me sneaking away for a tawdry affair with a piece of electronic equipment.

Sorry, hon, maybe for you birthday.

Oh, how did it get to this point? I'm like Halle Berry's character in Jungle Fever. I need my fix and I didn't have it for a whole day. One. Whole. Day. Yet I didn't die. I got the shakes but I didn't get the DT's. I didn't need methadone. I didn't knock over a CVS for oxycontin. I did eat a lot of chocolate bars, but who isn't this week?

Maybe there's hope for me after all.

Anyone want to start a support group with me? I'll bring the coffee and the folding chairs.