Ode to a broken iPod

To my iPod:

Well, we've come to this. After sitting in my closet for two years, I finally took you out last week and joined my generation. You were a gift from the pharmaceutical gods who furnish my Mom with whatever her little heart could never think of. I'm pretty sure you were found on a pillow at a swank hotel, Susan Epting engraved on your back. We had a good four days during which I took you everywhere; you saw more of Paris than Goldrick did. And now this.

Is it your time of the month? Why are you so cranky? What's with the static and constant skipping? Are you trying to spin like Lindsay Lohan? Because I'm sorry, but the Garden State soundtrack doesn't need you to spin.

I tried to reason with you. Maybe it was the headphones you weren't getting along with, I foolishly thought, and tried others. But you were ambivalent. I thought it was the metro, some weird French wavelength that started screwing with your abilities; I was prepared to move, to change cities, but then I realized you didn't even work in the park, far from the screeches of Paris metro breaks. That hurt.

You didn't like 'Golddigger' so I tried Madonna. You refused 'Hey ya' and so I even tried old love mixes (although I've really not been in the mood) to see if you needed something slower. Maybe the bass was throwing you off.

And now what have we come to? The ONLY way you won't scratch or blow out my eardrums is if I hold you in my hand, perfectly still, without the hold function turned on. You have refused all puffy vest pockets, all bags, you must be in my hand, alone, and barely touching my flesh. I'm trying not to be offended, but I am now the only tool who walks through Paris with her iPod in her hand like a compass, as if I need to find out which way North is to get to the freaking metro. I hate you, I'm so mad I took you out of the closet, you and your stupid pink metal-ness, you who start to play beautiful songs like 'Brick' and then turn them into K-Fed spectaculars.

Thanks for nothing. I want my discman back.

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