The day you go from clear skin to visible tattoos is the day you start constantly thinking about whether or not people can see them. Perhaps I need to look professional, or maybe my chances of banging this girl will increase if she sees my tattoos, etcetera. For a while, this sort of thing is always on your mind. This feeling is the exact same when you buy your first Mac. Let’s be clear here, I know that Macs are “hip” – that’s half of why I got one: I wanted to look badass. And so what? It’s the same with the tattoos, really. Sure, tattoos have “meaning” as much as MacBooks have “functionality” but fuck me; sometimes it’s nice to look like a pretentious, unemployed all-star. It’s frivolous, but shit, you only live once. Prior to my MacBook, I had a behemoth of a Dell. While I did feel safer walking at night with it – you really could club a horse to death with the thing – it was simply obnoxious. Like a retarded toddler, you simply could not take it certain places. The library? Of course not, for it would overheat in mere minutes, the fan whining like that aforementioned child should you neglect to feed it for a couple days: “what do you think this is, a fucking daycare?!” I was embarrassed, ashamed and by my peers, pitied. Enter my MacBook. This thing is so sleek I almost feel as if I’m doing it an injustice by screening filthy amateur smut on it.
Almost. I knew the day it rested in my throbbing lap that it was to travel with me wherever I went, smut and all. You know when you take a girl home and you’re all, “Yeah, she’s like a seven or whatever. It’s not big deal, I mean, I haven’t been on my A-game since I got chlamydia anyway,” but then when you get home she gets naked and you’re like, “Word,” and she’s definitely an eight and some change? Yeah, that’s what its like to bust out that MacBook trick for them ladies. Picture this: walk into that cute local café down the street, spot an eight to the left, a seven to the right, no big deal, whatever. They’re checking you out – obviously – but haven’t made up their minds. Sit down, order that latte and take off the jacket: Bam! Tattoos. If they don’t like tattoos, fuck ‘em, am I right? But no, you’re not done yet. At this point, they’re dying – you’ve got some Joyce on the table, sippin’ that espresso, looking apathetic, and then you hit them with that MacBook. Oh shit, it’s game time now: that glowing Apple is like a fucking beacon for badassery, and the crowd goes wild. It’s like slippin’ it in the exit hole without even asking: it’s almost too much to handle, but you’re just so confident they cannot deny you, and for them, it just feels too good to say no. Case in point: if there’s one reason to buy a Mac, it’s to feel like a boss. And like a Boss I feel.
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