It Cost me a lot of Pains daily from the persistent,  
recurring, and debilitating Carpal Tunnel Syndrome (CTS). 
 
Exigencies at the time, left me with no alternative but to ignore it and  
bear in silent agony the pain and discomfort of it's relentless impairment. 

Apart from that, it cost me casualties and death. 

It killed a Microsoft Mouse and a Hard Drive. 

For some time, telltale signs of lingering illness, diagnosed but also much  
ignored similarly (in self denial),  heralded Maxtor's ultimate and untimely  
demise from unexpected causes.  

Amnesia, I suspect. If not ALZ heimer's. 

It cannot read nor write anymore, and lost it's will to spin. 
 
Gone prematurely before his MTBF came. 
Promptly but not commendably, did not outlive it's short warranty.   
Just by one week. One short week, and a few milliseconds. 

Again, the grim reaper of the binary bytes cheated me out for the nth time  
of my fair share of computing time. And NOT for the last time. I found out. 

To my grief and consternation, the Mouse died shortly after Maxtor's death. 
Even before the grieving moments on the first one was over, it followed suit,  
abruptly. Without as much as bidding goodbye, it breathed it's last click.   
Left me alone forlorn and desolate. 
 
Right near the end of a complex HTML Tag, before I had a chance to do a  
" File Save As " . . .   On a page with Javascripts six hours long on the making. 

The Wisdom of the Ages speaks again, unerringly.  
Somewhere on my dim wit and vague recollection, a voice of pristine truthfulness 
echoes deep in reverberating resonance of universal truth and dogma;   

" A Fool and His Page is soon Parted. For having Failed to Save promptly ".  

And not just for a rainy day, I may add. 
  
It sucks! The truth, I mean, in all it's bare and naked beauty.  
And the thousand slings and arrows of misguided, unsaved bytes of information. 

Serves me right on my breach of primary rules and on my neglectful part, having  
been caught on a stream and flash of binary inspirations leading to lost clusters  
after painfull and unavoidable floppy reboot.  

Cache and tmp files to no avail. 

The Mouse is Dead. Long live Microsoft and the Mouse makers.  
They stand to gain more revenue from my tragic disaster.  
In form of a new replacement. Royalties or whatever. 

As to why the mouse died is (or will be) a subject of a long discourse and  
investigation. That alone may outlive, outrun Area 51's unending speculations.  
I'd rather put the matter to rest, and take fate's outrageous turns with noble  
pride and dignity. 

Maybe it died from grief from Maxtor's passing. 

Truly, a friend that jumps and spins at your behest with a click of a finger,  
executing precisely any whim and desire, in every bit, respect, and FAT block;  
-is a great loss to Mourn for.  

Deservedly maybe even Die for. Or die with. 
Tragically True. 

Or maybe Warcraft did it?  Friendly Fire possibly??? 
 
As a hard earned reward when getting a Javascript to work  
flawlessly, -an Orc round and campaign is played to the bitter finish.  
-'Till all the gold mines play out, and all the trees are cut.  

No cheats. No retreats. No surrenders. No coffee breaks. 

It is tough on the Hard drive, brutal on the Mouse, and nerve wracking on  
the poor Orc General who has to fend off footmen, archers, knights, and  
irksome scorpions from pesky sorcerers.  
Attacked from all quarters with No respite, and gold reserves running low,  
the whole scenario gets compounded by that dumb woodcutter holding up  
the whole line by picking a bad spot on the bridge;  
- to stop, smoke, and have a friendly chat. 

Thus the teeth grinding comes when after dinner dishwashing duty calls.   
Rather screams from the direction of the kitchen, in an unnerving tone,  
pitch, and decibel. Rising above, beyond and over; - the din of swords  
clashing, arrows whipping, catapults swooshing and booming landing thumps.  
As the Town Hall crumbles to dust in it's fire and fury, I shake and squirm in  
my lopsided chair while the Mouse skitters to find the pause button.  
I have to go to the bathroom!  
My stomach's churning-up from this intensity. 
 
But NO. I must NOT.  And should NOT. 

I cannot abandon the Orc's in their Hour of Need and Crisis. 
Everything must be held in abeyance, deferred, or postponed. 
Until the last catapult is in safe formation, and the enemy's  
barracks smashed to a thousand pieces. 

Even that much needed trip is ignored and held in extreme discomfort. 

Life isn't fair or easy. It gets very hard and stressful at this point.  

With Honor Guards, the Orc's gave the Mouse a solemn funeral and last rites.  
Parting clicks from two butttons were fired, then a final wheel salute.  
They buried Mouse next to Maxtor's unmarked grave.  
Two unsung heroes, casualties of the struggles in both DOS and Windows.  
They'll surely be missed, with all the Gigabyte emptiness they leave behind.  
They'll rest in peace, undoubtedly. 
 
Me, I cannot.  While I'm running DoubleSpace.  
Now I'll have to grit my teeth harder, with no relief in sight.  
Until Barracuda comes along.  Hopefully Cheetah LP. 

When If I have the Dinero. 

Ricky will Cry a Lot for His Mouse, though.  
His New One I have shamelessly expropriated as more casualties of war. 

Against better judgement, but under noble and extenuating circumstances. 
Carefully, I aligned the PS2 connectors. To mate in perfect coupling. 
With a final push and a click confirmation, I absolved my bothered  
conscience with this unavoidable sin of commission. 

The Orc's must survive! The fight must go on! 
A state of dire emergency exists!  
A matter of Life and Death struggle unfolds and must be resolved. 

In a deafening roar, I heard shouts of rejoicing.  
In concerted, tearfull, choked voices the Orc's cried their endless  
thanks and adulation. Once again as it was before, Ricky came to  
the rescue and saved the Orc Nation.  
In unwavering faith and dedication, for a just and worthy cause. 

His name shall forever be inscribed and etched in the hearts of the Orcs.  
For all eternity.  Plus one day more. 

The Saviour of ORC's Cause.  

Bothersome Conclusions:  

It is my confirmed suspicion after incessantly losing the Game  
that the ORC progammers have No Morals. 
They are untrue and deceitful. 

They've programmed the ORC enemies to Lie and Cheat.  
A right and privilege that should be solely accorded to me, the Player. 

And in transgression of the widely upheld belief of the principles of Fair Play.  

Consider the following Scenario; 
I take their Barracks, and burn it. I melt their Blacksmith to the ground.  
I plunder all their Gold Mines, and cut their Trees to stub. I blow their 
Lumber Mill to pieces, and de-sanctify their Churches. 

Yet still, they keep on sending me a bunch of their Knights, archers, and catapults. 

How did their Horses get shod, and their Knights armored?  
With tin cans?? 
And where did the wood from the catapult came from??? 

I'm mystified, puzzled, and very much pissed off. 

Either the asinine programmers cheated, or the Orc enemies  
have other undeclared resources.  
Foreign Aid? The CIA perhaps? Or the Russkies?  
I doubt Saddam. 

Maybe they have Unlimited Lines of Credit elsewhere???  
Hidden Swiss Bank Accounts???? 

I'm stumped. 
I wish another nut could get back to me to enlighten me on this enigma.  

It's hard to be perplexed alone.