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god. fucking. damn it.
Dec. 15th, 2004 11:47 amDear McAfee Virus Scan:
When I renewed my subscription to your product last month, it was with the knowledge that, as a college student whose life revolves around writing essays on her computer, I cannot afford to lose material to virus-induced system-crashes.
Seeing that, you will, no doubt, be able to understand why I was happy when, five minutes ago, your automatic update program started downloading updates for my computer. "Oh, good," I thought, "my computer will be happy and safe from all those nasty things floating around the internet, and I can continue writing my gigantic final paper in peace."
Until your lovely automatic-update program somehow misinterpreted my typing in Word as a command that yes, I would like the computer to restart. Immediately. Without saving the rather clever closing sentence I had just constructed for the last paragraph of my final paper. Surely you can understand why I was upset, on realizing that I had lost that very long and carefully constructed sentence that tied the entire paragraph together with my thesis, and finally put me onto the 11 page mark on this supposedly-fifteen-page paper.
And still more so when I realized that, somehow, the update didn't even work. You fucking sons of bitches, I'd really like to know what the fuck I give you my money for. And if I ever, and I mean ever find some sort of feedback address on your useless data center, you can bet I will be sending a variant of this email to you for your perusal.
Very very not happily yours.
When I renewed my subscription to your product last month, it was with the knowledge that, as a college student whose life revolves around writing essays on her computer, I cannot afford to lose material to virus-induced system-crashes.
Seeing that, you will, no doubt, be able to understand why I was happy when, five minutes ago, your automatic update program started downloading updates for my computer. "Oh, good," I thought, "my computer will be happy and safe from all those nasty things floating around the internet, and I can continue writing my gigantic final paper in peace."
Until your lovely automatic-update program somehow misinterpreted my typing in Word as a command that yes, I would like the computer to restart. Immediately. Without saving the rather clever closing sentence I had just constructed for the last paragraph of my final paper. Surely you can understand why I was upset, on realizing that I had lost that very long and carefully constructed sentence that tied the entire paragraph together with my thesis, and finally put me onto the 11 page mark on this supposedly-fifteen-page paper.
And still more so when I realized that, somehow, the update didn't even work. You fucking sons of bitches, I'd really like to know what the fuck I give you my money for. And if I ever, and I mean ever find some sort of feedback address on your useless data center, you can bet I will be sending a variant of this email to you for your perusal.
Very very not happily yours.
