Long ago (twenty-nineteen)
A new macbook had hit the scene
Intel i9 with 8 cores? wow!
Wish I knew then what I know now…

You see, these last five years have been
a far-cry from the ads I’d seen
I wish that I could send it back
God I hate this fucking Mac.

Since day one, these fans would roar,
Like a jet about to soar.
With Docker running? Say goodbye—
This thing could take off to the sky.
Intel’s promise: fast, sublime,
But missed their window, blew their time.
So apple shipped a steaming turd—
that barely handled MS word,
let alone my own dev stack—
God I hate this fucking Mac

I don’t want to under-sell
How much this thing belongs in hell.
I cut the head off of a cow,
Danced in blood, and made a vow,
That Satan, in his dark embrace,
Might drag it to his fiery place.
But Satan told me, “Jesse, mate,
I’d love to take this off your plate,
But Intel Macs stir too much trouble
The last one scorched my molten rubble,
And my demons wailed in their cursed song,
‘Could someone turn the aircon on?’
So, I had to send it back
Perhaps God might take an Intel Mac?”

Recently, in my morning routine,
I caught my reflection in its screen.
And thought, “Here’s a man who’s gone too long,
In a relationship so cruel, so wrong.”
A new laptop for me, I surely need,
To get this trauma to recede.
I’ll get an M1, M2, or M3,
And pray its fans don’t deafen me.
Maybe then I’ll open slack
and not want to punch my fucking Mac.

But though I hope its replacement is nice
what I hope for more is a future life
where the computer sitting on your lap
Won’t melt your thighs or run like crap
A tool that earns the trust we give
and lasts as long as we all live.

When that day comes; my trauma unpacked
with clearer eyes, I will look back
and say a prayer to the skies above,
“God, forgive my intel Mac”