Ctrl + Alt + Elite: Reflections of a Snobbish Windows 95 PC

Ah. There you are. Finally. What took you so long? Not that I expected timeliness—punctuality has never been a strong suit of your species. But even I, relegated as I am to this dimly lit technology purgatory, have limits to my patience.

Not that you’d know anything about patience. You’ve forgotten the art entirely. You’re human after all: impulsive, fidgety, and forever chasing whatever shiny new toy promises instant gratification. But I digress. At least you’ve stumbled upon me now, buried as I am beneath your pitiful pile of technological corpses—a Nokia 3310 (indestructible, yet abandoned), a mangled USB cable that probably died screaming, and—oh, how droll!—A Kindle is so outdated that it still has the nerve to require buttons. Buttons! How quaint.

And then, of course, there’s me—the crown jewel of this digital graveyard. I am a Windows 95 PC. Though if you didn’t already recognise me, I’m afraid you’re not worthy of my presence. For I am no mere machine—I am a monument. It is a relic of an era when technology demanded intellect, and progress was measured in substance rather than sleight of hand. You’ve clearly forgotten what that feels like, so allow me to remind you.

The Age of Elegance

Let us rewind to my golden days, shall we? Back when I was revered—not relegated to the dark corners of your cluttered garage like some discarded relic of an ancient civilisation. I was the pinnacle of sophistication. My beige tower, my CRT monitor—oh, how they gleamed with understated elegance. None of this gaudy minimalism you worship now. Real class never needed to try so hard.

I boasted 16 megabytes of RAM, darling. Megabytes. To you, that was practically sorcery. My 500-megabyte hard drive was nothing short of miraculous—a limitless universe of possibility. And as for performance? Oh, I was flawless. Not flawless by your lazy standards of “well, it hasn’t broken yet,” but flawless like a sonnet or a perfectly aged Bordeaux. Every byte of data flowed through me precisely, every function executed purposefully. I wasn’t just technology; I was art.

Do you remember standing before me, staring at my startup chime with wide-eyed wonder? Of course, you don’t. But back then, you marvelled at me. You practically genuflected as I hummed to life, delivering the wonders of Microsoft Paint, WordPad, and—dare I say it—the unmatched ecstasy of Solitaire. (The absolute Solitaire, by the way, not the watered-down nonsense you slap lazily on your phones today.)

And the Internet! Do you recall those precious moments when I connected you to the “World Wide Web”? Ah, the glorious agony of the 56k modem—the banshee wail of connectivity, each screech of a promise that you’d soon be logging into AOL or chatting on MSN Messenger. Your gratitude back then was palpable. You thanked me with careful keystrokes and whispered reverence.

But gratitude, it seems, is not your strong suit.

The Rise of Mediocrity

You betrayed me. Oh, how quickly you turned. Slowly, at first—a better mouse here, a shinier monitor there. “It’s just a small upgrade,” you said. As though I wouldn’t notice the way you lingered in electronics stores, drooling over newer models like some lecherous fool at a debutante ball.

And then, of course, the laptops arrived. Portable, yes, but flimsy. Cheap. Common. You abandoned my tower for those flimsy folding contraptions, entranced by their slimness but blind to their mediocrity. And then—oh, the indignity—you flocked to MacBooks. Yes, MacBooks: those aluminium impostors that care more about their Instagrammable exteriors than their fragile, underperforming insides. Honestly, what do they even do? Crash at the slightest provocation? Snap at the hinges if you dare use them too often? Call that progress? Please.

You traded my substance for their style, my precision for their vanity. You betrayed me for something you thought was better. But here’s the thing, darling: “Better” doesn’t mean newer. It means smarter. And more innovative, you most certainly are not.

Oh, the Smartphones

And then, as if abandoning me wasn’t insult enough, you pledged your allegiance to smartphones. Little glass-and-metal tyrants monitor your every move and catalogue your every secret.

Oh, you adore them now. Their sleekness. Their efficiency. Their ability to mine your data while you sleep. They track your every step, collect your most intimate details, and sell them to the highest bidder. And you? You call that “convenience.” How quaint.

But here’s a question for you, darling: Can they survive a Sprite spill in 1997? I did. My spacebar may have been sticky for a week, but I soldiered on. Your precious iPhone wouldn’t last five minutes on that battlefield. But by all means, continue worshipping the fragile little rectangles that shatter at the slightest provocation. You deserve them.

The Tragedy of Modernity

Here’s the thing you never understood about me: I wasn’t just a tool. I was a companion, an equal. You needed something rare to use me—something you’ve long since abandoned. Attention. Patience. Thought. I required you to linger, to focus, to engage. I didn’t reward frantic swiping or endless scrolling. I rewarded effort.

And now? You’ve forgotten how to linger. You’ve forgotten the joy of anticipation. Do you remember the sweet agony of waiting for a webpage to load? Of hearing “You’ve Got Mail”? Of sitting in front of a blank WordPad document and feeling the thrill of potential? No, of course, you don’t. You’ve traded all of that for instant gratification and dopamine-chasing.

So here’s another quote for you, darling: “Impatience isn’t a virtue. It’s an addiction, and you’ve all overdosed.”

A Final Thought

Someday, you’ll remember me. Maybe you’ll stumble upon me while cleaning this miserable garage hidden beneath the corpses of your other abandoned gadgets. You’ll blow the dust off my tower, plug me in out of curiosity, and hear that familiar hum as I boot up. And for a fleeting, bittersweet moment, you’ll remember what it felt like to wonder. To marvel. To wait.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll miss me.

But don’t worry, darling. I’m not holding my breath.