When Eve plucked the apple from the tree in the Garden of Eden so many spring seasons ago, she was hungry. Not for knowledge, as your Rabbi might mislead you, but for fashion. Sorry to take biblical and fashion scholarship by storm (again) -- but really, how many ways can you wear a fig leaf?

See, I can relate. Because, I too was once insatiable. In the spirit of "being different," and also adorable, I took the scenic route on the information highway and bought an angelically white light Macintosh iBook. But the devil apparently comes in all shapes, sizes and ram capacities. And the serpent is an impatient Indian man at computer connection named Rauol.

I was seduced. And then I was dumped. The former apple of my eye is now a bulbous sty that came from 36 consecutive hours of writing a 10 page paper -- twice. The iBoob, I mean, Book, decided to bounce on my midterm midnight mid-spell check, the night before the paper was due. Though I am glad to report that my pulse has started to beat somewhat regularly again since my 'i' world crashed, the stutter that some may mistake as clever alliteration still comes and goes. It's a process.

These wonders of communication have rendered me entirely less articulate and probably a little dumber. I find myself whining pathetic girlfriend on the other end of the apple customer care line. I repeat the automated prompts, "I need support" and "What are my options" back to the electronic voice casual enough to sound human, and also a little hurtful. All the while to get redirected to a man somewhere in India, also named Raoul.

Rauol listens. He cares. Enough to guide me back from my exile in 'i'ville to the more accessible pasture of the Apple website. Here you can frolic again in the garden and buy new problems. Rip new, riper, more colorful rip offs from the vine. New dysfunctional relationships. Choirs of "Hallelujah," swell from the incredibly small speakers of my new iPod mini.

I admit, we are not the smartest fit. My music files are too large. I have developed a complex about my irregularly mishapen ear holes that won't seem to keep the white buds of the mini headphones wedged in place. Yet, we are foolishly happy, my mini and me. Because fashion always tastes better.


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