And The Hits Just Keep On Coming

My hard-drive fizzled out Thursday. As in, the computer won't start. As in, sad churning noises are made and "can't find drive" error messages appear, accompanied by obnoxious beeps. I have no computer, except access to the flatmate's, which is a stripped-down Internet-accessing machine, unburdened by things such as Word, Excel, and so forth. The laptop itself currently resides at [local electronic company with awful radio taglines] that apparently employs computer technicians solely on their ability to fulfill your stereotypical notions of computer technicians. My seventy-five percent chance of data recovery was downgraded to a twenty percent chance after the dude held the computer up to the side of his head and made a face like Siddartha contemplating the Noble Truths, (the first of which is "Life is filled with suffering.") I paid this guy $150 in the hopes that some good can be pulled from the wreckage, after rejecting the recovery option that starts at $1,000.

My data was backed up through August, so all is not lost, like the time Sticky Fingers stole my back-up CDs after Bigfoot tripped over the power cord and destroyed my previous laptop.

Still, I don't have any of the diagnostic data, nor their skill charts, or fluency progress, or High Point assessment scores. My grades are on-line, but I've also lost all the new work I've been doing, like grammar human bingo, two-column notes on steroids, fact-and-opinion/ cause-and-effect supplements, new basketball playbook emphasizing triangulation and low post play, not to mention the two papers I've written for the Masters, but have not yet turned in.

Meanwhile, I'm writing things on post-it notes and index cards, and wishing I could stare at my Skill Mastery Excel file.

File this under: Nothing good happens in October.