Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Prepared by patient [Wife]. Last night at midnight, the hour of terrible discoveries, I found an email problem with the workserver and in attempting to fix it created a network problem. Which, in attempting to fix it, created an isolated machine--frozen and shivering, unable to speak to any one of the thousands of people who normally would speak to it--and far off in Texas. Which, in attempting to fix it, revealed a STATUS: DAMAGED drive in the RAID array (when things are serious everything the computer says is in uppercase, as if it were printing to a teletype at the embassy in Moscow), which, in attempting to fix it, kept me on the line with tech support for three wee small hours. Much like going to the doctor for a spot on your nose and being told you need a new leg. When all was done the email problem remained unsolved. I woke before noon and grasped my rigid device, checking messages. (A very large man stands face up, mouth open, eyes wide, arms out, beneath a waterfall of boiling shit.) From such moments--tired, sliding, and remembering both the shame and the salty comfort from the kung pao seduction--I am prepared to surrender, to accept the terms put forth by the encroaching Bagel and Muffin Army. (Imagine them marching, little legs, shields, with frosted visages; was it ever so cute to be conquered?) But [Wife] descends from the heavens, my Joan of Arc Welding, to say: have some yogurt and meusli. I am humbled twice, not just before my own utter failure but also before her concern, the constant lesson in humility.