My hard drive didn’t make it, there was a fatal error. It was quietly laid to rest yesterday in a private ceremony. Last minute heroics were unsuccessful in a valiant attempt to save the accursed device. Well, not by me, personally, but by the tech guy.
At the first sign of trouble, though, I did rush my computer over to him. In a panic-induced frenzy, I babbled an overwrought and greatly exaggerated tale of death throes and last gasps. The dramatic picture I painted, complete with wild hand gestures, elicited an eye roll and a mumbled, ‘sounds like a software issue’.
Software? Really? I started breathing again, shallow breaths, but breathing all the same. The hard drive was only a couple days old, mind you. The thought of buying another one, with labor costs, wasn’t even remotely attractive.
Hours later, the tech guy called with glorious news of corrupted system files; the drive could be resuscitated. My whole body unclenched. But, he warned, the drive would have to be wiped, I’d lose all my data. Big freaking deal, I still had back-ups from the first crash. Wipe away.
By that night, my computer was back on my desk humming happily. I reloaded software, restored as many bookmarks as I could remember, and loaded my data files. My computer was back and I could go back to avoiding my nemesis, the despicable touchscreen. Except it wasn’t and I couldn’t.
No sooner had I restored everything than my computer went all weird again. That’s technical language, went all weird. So I went commando and launched the Disk Utility program. Ha, that’d fix it. The program dutifully checked the drive and declared it ‘ok’, then proceeded to verify permissions or some such thing, but reported no valid packages. That’s when the computer started wheezing and shuddering; it gave a final feeble cough, sent a wisp of smoke skyward, and went toes up. Red type on the screen stated: Fatal Error.
Tears came to my eyes, a lump to my throat, and my heart fell into my shoes. Why, I asked? Why do these things always happen on Fridays? After five? Is there new legislation regarding disk failures? A new type of blue law? Well, step aside, this is an emergency.
I dashed off an email to Monsieur Tech Guy, lamenting the demise of my newly repaired hard drive. And on Sunday morning, this knight in shining armor, this beatific Prince Charming, replaced the failed drive with a working drive. For free.
Software’s been loaded, bookmarks bookmarked, and data restored. So far, so good. Although I noticed a curious and significant reduction in available disk space. Closer inspection revealed the replacement disk is 20gb smaller than the one I bought. And it’s used. Does the fact that this information bothers me make me an ingrate? A terrible person? I’m absolutely certain it makes me nervous.
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