I’m not against having children. They’re loud and messy and poorly versed in world cinema, but they’re not terrible people. They’ll probably grow into being terrible people, but before they taste that apple of meanness and start kicking sandcastles into other kid’s faces, they’re not so bad. But I don’t really want one right now, and that’s not because I feel that I’m not mature enough to handle them. No one is ever ready to have a baby. No piece of evolution prepares you to have your own screaming DNA sarcastically thrust back at you There’s no high school life skills course that adequately trains you to wake up at 1 AM, 3 AM, and 5 AM, because a tiny human needs to eat/poop/do something, but can’t quite tell you in words just what that something is.
No, I don’t want kids right now because I’m not emotionally ready for someone else to be messing up my computer.
I first learned how to use a computer at five. And I use the word “use” very loosely because this first experience basically taught me that you shouldn’t eat any part of one. I recently saw a preschool-aged child tell their mother in a Wal-Mart that their phone wasn’t good enough, so I have no idea how young kids are when they’re introduced to computers in the year 2014. I imagine that, now, before an infant is allowed to leave the hospital, they’re forced to learn how to save things as a pdf document. This is a fast-paced technological world that we live in. Do you have a social media marketing plan for promoting that hand outline turkey drawing of yours, child? No? You dolt. Remedial class! A life of embarrassment for you.
But even as smart as kids are, I’ve seen how they treat electronics. Hell, I remember how I treated all electronics that I myself didn’t buy, and I feel sad about those poor, mishandled video game and computer systems that could’ve lasted for years longer had I not crammed, smashed and prodded at them with abandon. A video game doesn’t necessarily work better or faster, despite how quickly I push the disk or cartridge in. I treated games for my Super Nintendo and Nintendo 64 like they weren’t actually built for the systems I was trying to put them in. I was using brute force to crash these pieces in, like they would have been rejected if I didn’t swing my arm down hard enough.
Computers got a slightly better (physical) treatment from me, but when faced with access to every bit of data in the world, I used my powers for malice, and slowly filled my parent’s machines with virus after virus. At the end of a desk top’s lifespan in my household (usually six months. I’m not kidding by saying that I practically invited viruses into these things. My ability to discern things that I should click on from things that I shouldn’t didn’t improve until I was nearly twenty-seven. And I’m twenty-five now,) the thing would barely run. It would sputter to life, and every session on it was the like the movie Rocky Balboa, where this old, bulky cantankerous thing would slowly shudder and stumble its way through whatever process you wanted it to, sometimes cutting off midway through the log in phase.
“Just kill me…” it would whisper in its own language, made up of beeps and labored internal fan noises. “BUT I NEED TO SEE WHO WON THE MAIN EVENT AT WRESTLEMANIA 18!!!” I’d respond, beating the thing to life and then abandoning it by sharply turning the power off whenever my useless needs were satiated. Then the computer would be moved to the basement, where, gathering dust, I imagine it pondered to itself Why didn’t the masters love me? I must not have tried hard enough…
Once, I gave a computer a virus that caused a pop up ad with the words “CUM FIESTA” written on it to expand across the screen whenever you tried to do anything. I don’t know any more intricacies of this Spanish bodily fluid party infection, as I was banned from the computer for a little while because of my putting out the welcome mat for it, but it’s just the best example of the many things that would eventually ruin my parents’ trust of me, along with their hope that they could spend hundreds of dollars on a device that their oldest son wouldn’t eventually destroy.
As I hinted at earlier, I haven’t much improved. I don’t click on as much obvious spam, but that’s mainly because the part of my brain that detects bullshit has become more fully formed, due to how many times people at kiosks have asked me to look at their products in the mall. But still, whenever something isn’t loading fast enough, I refresh it, because asking it to start over completely will surely always be faster than letting it continue. Also, compared to my friends, I know nothing about computers. I know how to write on them, but if you asked me the parts that a computer contains, all I can respond with is “Screen, keyboard, and the magic things that buzz inside.”
I have a great father, but despite his best efforts, I ended up me. Now, if I was to raise a child, that also has parts of my genetic code, it would be the most “fire and gasoline” scenario that’s ever existed. My kid will probably power up his computer by side kicking it until the right internal things collapse enough for the stupid thing to turn on. I’ve had fairly one sided screaming matches with a computer before, that happened because I was disappointed with how it was running. I am the fascist warlord to Best Buy’s small, unassuming, Eastern European country.
So, no kids for now. Until they create a computer that is positively “Daniel-proof,” I have come here to yell at computers and treat them roughly.
And I’m all out of none of that.