A cure via e-mail.
I wrote: "I am not magically happy yet. Please fix me."
Rod, my best friend in the world, wrote: "Okay. Well, first you need to run a Level 5 Diagnostic to see if you have any un-shielded algorithms that may be causing the problem. If you do, then you’ll be easy to fix. If not, I’ll have to take you down to the shop for a bit."
"I don’t have any diagnostic tools."
"That’s okay. Here’s what you do: hold your breath and pinch your nose for eight seconds. That will start your self-test. Let me know what the print out says."
"Where exactly does it print out from?"
"It should scroll up on your eyelids when you close your eyes."
"That was less nasty than I thought it was going to be. But I still don’t think like that."
"Yeah, it’s mildly creepy."
"It also doesn’t work."
"Well, then you’ll have to come down to the shop."
"I don’t want to go down to the shop. I don’t like the shop. What are they going to do in the shop?"
"Wow. There’s nothing even remotely mechanical I can say that isn’t sleazy-sounding. Lube job, detailing–"
"Take me for a test drive and see if they hear any odd sounds–"
"Yeah. It just goes on and on."
"Ew. And ew. And also ew. Please promise me you’ll never say any of those things to me."
"No problem. Even as we speak, I am banging my head on the desk to make
sure that I not only won’t say them, I won’t even remember them. "
"You banging your head on the desk cheers me up. A little."