Originally appeared in the Saint Paul Pioneer Press

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And I thought, Huh. That big old 3.2 gigabyte hard disk is finally full. Well, I'm an old hand at this. I used File Find to locate every temporary file saved earlier than today, and deleted them. There were 1,032 of them - scribble, scribble!

Then I thought, why not use that nice Uninstaller program to delete programs I never use. I identified and deleted 14 programs. Then I emptied out my download folder -- tons of things there. Altogether, I deleted 711 megabytes of useless stuff. I felt clean.

Until I rebooted. Moments later, attempting to use Dial-Up Networking, I was informed ("Error 745") that an essential file of Dial-Up Networking was missing, and could I please reinstall it. Fourteen reinstallation attempts later, it still didn't work.

Then I thought, why not buy Windows 98, install that, and do an end run around this business? I don't need the operating system, but it's cheaper and easier than taking the machine in.

So I raced to the store, was the only person there eager to buy a copy, bought it, spent two hours installing it, and now -- you're getting ahead of me -- I get the same message.

How can Dial Up Networking be incomplete with a brand new operating system?

So I stewed. And I realized my problem isn't the three days of downtime and $120 this idiot problem will cost me. It's the sick feeling I had in my stomach right now. It kills all perspective. Suddenly, getting your PC running again is the only thing that matters. People that don't get that -- oh, man.

While I was desperately trying to reinstall the utility, my son and his friend sat down across from me and began shooting aliens. How I hated their carefree violence. I gave them my Jack Nicholson face, from "The Shining." They fled.

Then Rachel came down and informed me the dog was in the side yard, bellowing at the rabbits in their pen. Silently, I rose and led the poodle back into the house, much as hangman might summon a prisoner into the sunlight.

Friends, this is familiar terrain. My PC goes down four times every year, and every time a cloud of the blackest, foulest debris forms above my furrowed brow. And when it does, look out - cuz I could snap at you. Snap!

Rachel just came downstairs -- again -- to ask for help painting the attic ceiling. I glowered at her. Could she not see I was in computer agony? She tiptoes away.

The curious thing about these computer-induced moods is how they contradict everyone's predictions about technology. This machine I sit across from - wasn't it supposed to robotize me? It was supposed to kill off my emotional side. Make me an unfeeling drone.

Au contraire, my putty-colored adversary. It has cultivated in me a rich and reliable cycle of infuriation, self-pity, and hatred. Paradoxically, it has increased my humanity, because I rarely feel these emotions except at console. I am feeling so human right now - I just can't say what I might do.

My problem isn't down time. I can copy my current workfiles to a floppy and work on them on some other computer.

No, what's getting me is the emotional roller-coaster ride I know I am embarked on. I'll lug the box into a store, wait in line, have trouble explaining the problem in language the desk-techie can comprehend, be promised two-day turnaround, get the box back in about a week, and the problem won't be fixed. I'll be told the hard drive needs to be erased and the dreaded Restore utility run to recreate this stupid 3-kilobyte file. It will be months until I painstakingly reload all my programs and get the configs back to what they should be.

No, it's not crucifixion. It's slower.

I look up and there is Rachel, wearing a sad-clown face to match mine.

"What is it, darling?"

"I opened the wrong bucket and painted the attic the wrong color," she says, slumping into a chair beside me. "Now I have to redo the whole thing."

"How bad is it?"

She pouted. "It's pink."

"Oh, my sweet," I tell her, and pat her hand. "Remember that this life is an experiment in soul-making, to make us fit for the voyage beyond. That which does not make us mad can only make us stronger."

"Yeah," she says, not quite persuaded. "But still …"

We stare into the space in the middle of the room, waiting for the zephyr of human resilience to waft over us. It takes a while.

Then I stand, and pull her to her feet. "Come," I say. "We will repaint these walls before dark, then go to bed. Because -"

She put her finger to my lips, and finishes the sentence herself:

" - tomorrow is another day."

America's Best-Loved Technology Writer(TM), Michael Finley has a free gift for visitors to http://mfinley.com.