And by Apple, I mean Apple, Inc. Not the Mac.

Apple can kick me into a seething rage almost as fast as bad conference papers. (Incidentally, if I weren’t desperately trying to hide my identity and therefore my exact field, I’d also be writing a love letter to a big-name professor who not only gave a superb paper, thus saving a bad panel at the AHA, but made crucial interventions that helped redeem the substandard—and 30-35 minute!—presentations of the other panelists. Bless you, unnamed professor. Sadly, when I expressed thanks, the friendly response was “I’ve met you, haven’t I? Your name is familiar.” No, you haven’t met me, but you might have read my application for the fellowship that never bothered to send a rejection. Despite this, unnamed professor, you still revive my optimism for the future of the academy.)

Anyhow, this is not my love letter, but that of Victorianitas:

“That’s why I hate Apple,” says my brother.

No. That’s why I hate Apple. Him? He’ll never understand.

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