Norton: By Any Other Name, You’re Still a Pain in My Ass

Dear Norton,

My expectations are simple:

1. Stay out of my way
2. Do not allow messages like “YOU COMPUTER INFECTED”* to blanket my screen
3. Never, *never* mess with Facebook.

Stay up late. Don’t make your bed. I don’t care.

It seems simple enough, right?

Oh, but it isn’t.

You continue to treat me as if I’m either a computer engineer or a complete dork. And your insistent questions remind me of the disaster that was my 11^th grade perm. I pointed to Jennifer Anniston, but the hair stylist followed up with,
“Do you want a spiral?”
“Which one is more expensive?” I asked.
“Spiral.”
“Okay, I’ll do spiral.”

And with three words and one contraction, I committed to four months of early 80s Michael Jackson hair. Some notable issues: it was 2002, I was a pale strawberry-blonde and my membership to limited rhythm had not yet been activated by four to six beers.

See what happens when you ask stupid questions? Sure, you don’t mess with my hair. Because no one other than my homosexual hair stylist messes with my hair. But you try to restrict access to FACEBOOK, a site that is now responsible for 5% of all worldwide Internet usage.

I can’t. I won’t. I did. For two weeks. And when I went back on all hell had broken loose. I’m asking when people are going to pop questions and they’re asking me what questions and to who?

Not to mention the drastic changes in my musical tastes, personal interests and “About Me.”

So Norton, I turned you off. And I’m quite happy. I browse. You occasionally tell me you scanned my computer 8.7 minutes ago and found 589 threats. That’s great. I’ve just learned to treat you like 10th grade history class.

“Blah, blah, civil war. Blah, blah, class is over you all get As.”

*If you’re going to annoy me with an unnecessary virus on my computer, can you at least do a spell/grammar check?

* To all of my kind high school friends who lied to my face and told me it was “cute”: thank you.