For Cornelius

Yesterday I got a fancy new computer. It will be replacing Cornelius, who has served me for five years and two days with grace, poise and, towards the end of its stint as my laptop, a rather grating noise emanating from his fan that was once mistaken for an electric shaver being operated in an adjoining room.
 
Cornelius was a miracle laptop. A few weeks before I first headed off to ____ College/University, Cornelius stopped turning on. The folks at the--let's call it the "fruit stand"--informed me that a repair would be more costly than a new laptop. I took my large aluminum paperweight home, happy, at least, that it had lived to see the election of our first biracial president. "Yes we can!" my computer said, and allowed a hard drive hanging around the house to make it functional once more.

This is Cornelius. It has rested on a lap stand for four years because my thighs would otherwise have melted long ago.

It is hard enough saying goodbye to a computer I have sort of anthropomorphized, but at least I don't know how to drive. It would probably rack me with guilt to give up a car with those neotenous headlights. At least personal computers don't have human features, am I raight?