This new ipad came fully loaded in the mail, sprinting to me on its own steam, when where how it got here I don’t know. She just came, in an orange sleeve, with the keyboard made for hands even smaller than MINE, which seems unfathomable. I have the smallest adult hands I have seen, and I have seen a lot of hands, as I always look and compare. This is the curse of being born with something you decide is inadequate, you are always looking at what everyone else has so you can think painfully further about what you don’t have.
I am not sure about her yet. I don’t know if we are going to fit. She’s so small, and my ideas are large, and my hands want the space to write what they will. She’s too sensitive for my touch, which was used to the buxom, lusty spread of the 17 inch Mac powerbook. I could grab the 17 inch and man handle it and get up to 70-80 words per minute with not even a comma out of place. I am a veteran when it comes to querty, typing is in my blood. I can say it and mean it and not even look down when i do – this is my familiar, the 17-inch. this was my tool. And now having downsized, the 17 inch giving me a lightning worthy electric shock one too many times coming out of the xray machine at airport security. I thought – I don’t want to use my jacket like a pot holder anymore. I am sick of the shocks, sparks flying off my hands literally – enough. I need something new. And now she’s here and I am trying, oh trying to love her, but my heart is reticent, my hands are illogically faithful, monogamous to the big computer, even though I tell them all keyboards could belong to them.