My chunky beige work monitor with the nice big screen, which I've been plugging into the video port of my laptop in order to postpone the inevitable and persistent decrease in the viewing power of my eyeballs, has just given off a sudden fragrance of ozone, twitched a few times and then expired gently, breathing its electronic last in a susurration of fused circuits, fading to an evanescent whisper of white noise. It is no more, it has ceased to be. It is an ex-monitor. On Monday, the nice gentlemen from Inventory will load the dearly departed lump onto a gurney and wheel it away to the great Recycle Bin in the sky. Alas! It was so young.
Well, okay, it wasn't, it was clearly built in the early 1970's by a member of the Functional Yet Nevertheless Ugly As A Hatful Of Arseholes school of design, but still I mourn its passing. I mean, now I have to use the laptop screen, for God's sake - how inconvenient is that? My eyes will be unable to take the strain! I might as well be writing with quill and ink on parchment by candlelight! Shit. Next week will find me in Specsavers with a couple of fishbowls strapped to my head.
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