It's Like Hackers But With More Swearing

To detail the ordeal I have gone through with my computer over the last few days would require more space than all seven Harry Potter books if you used some sort of biggening ray to make them as tall as skyscrapers.

Sparing you that, I will fast forward to me fervently seeking a Windows XP disc.

I delved into the ancient desk upon which this old computer is keenly perched, its myriad drawers hiding untold wonders that had not been seen since ancient days, waiting in the darkness for the day the dry, rusty light would once again shine onto them.

I found a great many things on my journey. Countless terrible old drawings, intricate character designs and plans for stories long-abandoned, and even more terrible high school grades. There were games long-forgotten, CDs I couldn't even remember. There were many gifted discs as well, shows and songs that friends had insisted I partake. I pulled a few aside, to look at later.

There were relics from the days when this was my mother's, business cards and tokens of collegiate work, as well as tiny treasures like buttons, keychains, pills and things I could not identify.

There was a deck of miniature tarot cards, each one roughly the size of a fingertip. I remember this being mine, but I cannot imagine how I thought it'd be convenient. I recall playing with them, arranging them. There's a book that explains their usage next to them, buried under papers and forms.

I found things I had meant to fill out, things I stuck in there with no intention of filling out. There was a Christmas card from a deceased relative, faded coupons who have no more value, two comics (One Excalibur, one Runaways), the manuals for anything computer-related that I knew I'd never open, a large aesthetically pleasing tray of cotton swabs and balls, the end of a rubber liquid-filled yoyo whose string broke and which, if I recall, began to leak upon use, which I was too enamored with to throw away.

There was baking soda and bandages, a set of Sandman postcards that seemed, when I saw them, to be the most singularly important thing on the planet. There were secret things that I wished I hadn't found, notes I'd written about Japanese phrases to use in Final Fantasy XI when I was one of the only Americans playing, and more small plastic bags than I could hope to justify having stuck in there, rather than the trash can that has sat perennially next to it.

I don't know that it's even necessary to mention I didn't find the CD.

Remembering old things makes me uncomfortable.