My name is Mamacita and I do not own an iPod.

I do not know how they work. I’ve never seen one up close.

I want one, though. I won’t get one, because we have no money, but maybe some day. You know, when they’re obsolete and everybody’s got something else, some new thing that holds twelve million songs, has interactive videos, and raises the dead.

When they replace the 8-track player as the goofiest piece of obsolete stereo equipment. That’s when I’ll finally get one.

Monster trucks will have them, factory installed, before I get one. I’ll probably find one at a yard sale, for thirty-five cents.

Oh well.

I have thousands and thousands of songs on my hard drive, and all I have to do is hit ‘random’ and I’m fine.

Thousands of songs put there by me, and dozens put there by my (un)friendly hijacker.

It’s funny, in a sick kind of way.

I’ll be moseying through my songs, occasionally blushing at the antiquity and individuality and coolness-seen-only-by-me of some of them, and suddenly I’m face to face with. . . . Blink 182.

Hello.

What the heck?

Okay, some of it isn’t too bad. My own massive list is eclectic and funky and represents a little bit, or a lot, of everything.

But I’m not really a fan of teen ________. (I left that blank because I’m not sure what should go there. ) “Shit” comes to mind, as I found and hurriedly deleted a song by (gag) Ashlee Simpson several months ago.

I haven’t found anything new lately, so maybe the worst is over.

The point is, it’s MY LIST. It’s MY COMPUTER. Get out of its innards and quit messing with me.

Now if you’ll all please excuse me, I want to run a few thousand spyware programs. Build a few more walls. Install a few more locks.

I’m not as scared as I used to be, but sometimes I’m still scared.

I mean, Puddle of Mudd? I keep thinking I’ve got rid of them all but then I’ll find another one.

And no, I don’t want to know what really happened. Stop emailing me. I don’t care. Just go away.

Not YOU.

THEM.