to everything click, click, click.

A dying iPod is like a senior in the throes of dementia. Todd (his name was Todd the Pod) would go to play a song, forget what he was doing, then black out and start making wheezing noises. He'd emerge from the darkness to play a few seconds of a song, sending my hopes into the stratosphere. YES, that's right Todd! Judas Priest! You like Judas Priest! REMEMBER JUDAS PRIEST? Nurse, can you get the doctor in here? NOW! And some green jell-O.

The clarity would leave as quickly as it came. Even though no buttons were depressed, Todd would switch to a track entirely different than what was indicated on the display screen. I'm sorry, ma'am. We can make him as comfortable as possible but...Todd, what are you doing? Ma'am, we're going to need you to step out of here. Todd, THAT'S THE ALARM CLOCK. TODD, WE ARE LISTENING TO MUSIC. MUSIC. TODD, I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE. ANSWER ME!

Today I went to the Apple store and bought home Todd's replacement. Her name is Fran. Frano the Nano. Her first song was My Hood by Young Jeezy. Disposable income does wonders for grief. I turned on the Christmas lights and danced around the living room in a fit of yuppie ecstasy. I caught a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror and realized I looked like a fucking iPod ad. Somewhere an ad exec is jisming.