A couple of months ago, I bought an Apple MacBook.
I had been using Windows-based PCs my entire life, but I decided it was time to enter the Apple ecosystem.
That phrase—"the Apple ecosystem"—should have been my first fucking warning.
An ecosystem is where wild animals eat each other.
Then I connected my iPhone and iPad to the MacBook.
At almost exactly the same time, in an entirely unrelated act of spectacularly bad judgment, I added psyllium to my diet.
There is nothing quite like losing your fucking mind on so many fronts simultaneously that you begin to wonder whether voluntarily checking yourself into a loony bin might actually qualify as a spa vacation.
I don't know whether I need an Apple Genius, a gastroenterologist, an exorcist, or a priest.
Probably all four.
Because suddenly I couldn't find anything.
Documents disappeared.
Presentations disappeared.
Emails disappeared.
Websites disappeared.
Files I had been working on for months apparently packed their shit, changed their names, and moved to iCloud without leaving a forwarding address.
I would save something on my MacBook and then spend 45 minutes trying to figure out where the fuck Apple had decided to put it.
Desktop?
Documents?
Downloads?
iCloud?
iCloud Drive?
On My Mac?
On My iPhone?
Recently Deleted?
Some mysterious folder apparently located in Cupertino underneath Tim Cook's desk?
WHO THE FUCK KNOWS?
Windows used to ask me where I wanted to save something.
Apple apparently thinks that's too much information for me.
"Don't worry, Joel. We have it."
WHERE?
"Somewhere beautiful."
Meanwhile, my iPhone started dialing random people in the middle of the night.
Not butt dialing.
That would make sense.
My phone was apparently developing its own social life.
People would tell me the next morning:
"You called me at 2:17 a.m."
No, I didn't.
"Yes, you did."
Show me.
Nothing.
No outgoing call.
No record.
No evidence.
Apparently my iPhone had become a burner phone for itself.
At this point, I am expecting it to start texting old girlfriends:
"Joel still thinks about you."
NO THE FUCK I DON'T, SIRI.
And while Apple was slowly dismantling my professional life, psyllium was launching a hostile takeover of my intestinal tract.
Everything I had read said fiber was wonderful.
Fiber lowers cholesterol.
Fiber improves digestion.
Fiber helps your microbiome.
Fiber may help you live longer.
Fantastic.
What they leave out of the fucking brochure is:
DRINK A LOT OF WATER OR YOU MAY CREATE A CONCRETE BOLLARD IN YOUR COLON.
Apparently psyllium absorbs water.
A lot of water.
Which would have been useful information before I consumed enough of it to repair a pothole on I-285.
Within a few days, Fleet's Enema had gone from something I vaguely remembered seeing on a drugstore shelf to my new drug of choice.
Forget cocaine.
Forget Xanax.
Forget tequila.
I was walking through CVS like a junkie looking for his dealer.
"Psssst. You got the Fleet?"
"Regular or Extra?"
"Give me the good shit."
At some point during this gastrointestinal hostage crisis, I finally understood why people in Cleveland say they're "taking the Browns to the Super Bowl."
For 63 years I thought that was a football expression.
It is not.
It is a medical objective.
And some days the Browns don't make it to the Super Bowl.
Some days the Browns don't even get out of the fucking locker room.
Meanwhile, my Apple Watch is congratulating me.
"You've closed your Stand Ring!"
Fuck you.
I've been standing for three hours because I'm afraid to sit down.
Then Apple asks:
"Would you like to sync your Health data across all your devices?"
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
You people have already lost my PowerPoint presentation.
You are not getting custody of my colon.
I don't need my bowel movements available seamlessly across every Apple device I own.
I can already envision the notification:
"Your bowel movement has been uploaded to iCloud."
Followed three minutes later by:
"iCloud storage is full."
No fucking kidding.
Then Siri chimes in:
"I found something on the web about intestinal obstruction. Would you like me to read it?"
NO, SIRI.
CALL A PRIEST.
But don't actually call him, because apparently you'll call him again at 3:14 tomorrow morning and I will have no record of it.
This is supposedly technology making my life easier.
Everything is synced.
Everything is connected.
Everything works together.
Except me.
I am the only device in the Apple ecosystem currently experiencing a catastrophic operating-system failure.
My MacBook can't find my files.
My iPhone is drunk dialing acquaintances.
My iPad apparently knows everything but refuses to tell me.
My colon is running Windows Vista.
And somewhere in California, Tim Cook is probably sitting in a perfectly minimalist white room drinking green juice and thinking:
"It just works."
No, Tim.
It doesn't.
At least not over here.
Over here I am holding a MacBook in one hand, a Fleet's Enema in the other, asking Siri where my PowerPoint went while desperately trying to get the Browns into the fucking playoffs.
I've reached the point where if a man in a white coat showed up at my house with a straitjacket, I wouldn't resist.
I'd ask two questions:
Do you have Wi-Fi?
And—
How much water should I drink with psyllium?
Because I have finally discovered the one thing Windows and Apple users can agree on:
Eventually, all roads lead to tech support.
And apparently, if you don't drink enough water…
so does fiber.