Guess I'm Not Cut Out to Be a Hipster After All

Magic Mouse, you are so. Not. Magical. You're about as magic as those "magic moments" at prom—you know, vaguely disappointing and really slobbery.

This magic moment...when I'm thisclose...to throwing you...awaayyyy...

Or across the room. You see, I fought for you. I spent HOURS trying to get your "one click" installation to work. (Open-computer surgery + three hours, and you finally side-scrolled.) I hurt for you. (Like day one, when I contracted "mouse finger", or yesterday, when my whole arm hurt from your slick yet useless design.) I even paid for you, unfortunately, and even by wrangling a discount, you were still half-a-benny. Ouch.

And things were adequate, for awhile. While I was writing, you gamely, more or less, did your job. But now? That I'm designing up a storm? You SUCK, magic mouse. SUUUUUUCK. The barest accidental swipe sends me reeling through pages, computer locking up at the breakneck scrolling speed. A resize attempt? Foiled by an oversensitive trackpad. In fact, any attempt at any design function whatsoever sends you scrambling for anything but the intended action—did I want the page bigger? Smaller? Deleted entirely? No, no no!

Yes, you're attractive. Trendy. Superficially cool, and decidedly trim. But you're not the mouse for me. I need grit, practicality, and a meaty hold. I'm sure you'll find someone perfect for you...some image-conscious hipster girl with ironic glasses. But you and I, we're through.

I'm finding a mouse that supports my career, collaborates with my intentions, and doesn't ever make me hurt—no matter how much time we spend together.

Goodbye, Magic. I'm not settling.