Kate Greenaway: The disappointment. (1890)

"I will be back at it again tomorrow morning."

Technology promised what every innovation has always promised: ease. It has yet to deliver. Not that this failure has chased off many customers. I know of nobody who made good on their pledge to rid themself of their frustrating technology. No, we return with fresh hopes the following morning, only to rediscover the depth of technology's betrayal. It does not seem to care. It seems incapable of giving a damn. We stopped being mere users decades ago, before our technology became this convoluted. Tangle built upon previous tangles to produce a mess whose designers probably don't understand.

My technology holds the power to transform me into a whimpering eight-year-old at virtually any time. I thought I might be the only one so affected until a very tech-savvy friend visited. Imagine my shock when I caught him performing the part I had previously thought only I played. But there he was, laptop on his lap, seemingly close to tears in the deepest disappointment. He spoke the familiar monologue: "It shouldn't do that. It was supposed to …. It shouldn't do that twice in a row!" You know what I'm saying because you've probably heard yourself delivering the same lines.

I use my technology very hesitantly. I swore, when I first encountered Barbie and Ken Computers, that I'd never learn to program them. I would choose to remain a naive user and not ever even attempt to become a master of the damned things. I would not play games on mine, lest I cast myself as a competitor. I wanted to use mine for business, so it wouldn't do to use it for play, though computer games never really struck me as a form of play, anyway. I would also avoid becoming a power user. I would use the apps to their bare minimum, lest I experience the sorts of troubles that only those who fly too close to the sun encounter. I would remain a minimalist in all things computer-related. In this way, I'd naively hoped to avoid the usual disappointment that naturally accompanied computer use.

But it doesn't matter. It probably never mattered. Anyone using one of the damned things will get stung. The disappointment's built in. If I used my laptop as a brick, it would probably still manage to disappoint me. However I might try to sidestep this founding dilemma, I will very likely stumble into the middle of it. I will be reduced to helpless victim again and begin the awful soliloquy, Shakespearian in its simplicity, my character reduced to blathering—my cool, elevated far above comfortable room temperature level. I will call for The Muse to save me from certain damnation. Not even she will likely be capable of saving me. I'm damned and I know it. I negotiate with the most heartless God imaginable, one who promised salvation but delivered only more insidious frustration instead.

I will be back at it again tomorrow morning.

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