An Open Letter To My Apartment’s Wi-Fi Network

Dear Scrundle,

You’re a snively, sadistic little prick, aren’t you? Urban Dictionary aside, you truly are everything “Scrundle” sounds like: a whimper, a groan, an unreliable creature that disappears when it’s needed most. I can’t imagine another feeble Internet connection that better embodies its name.

We really thought it was a funny name when we first moved in, my roommates and I. “Scrundle! That’s a weird thing to call our Wi-Fi network, isn’t it?” we laughed. “’I Can See What You’re Doing’ is a little too creepy anyway.” So we typed it in and settled onto the couch with our laptops. Then the signal dropped to two bars.

It was all downhill from there. I should have known.

You see, Scrundle, it’s been nine months now that we’ve co-habitated 278 San Carlos, and you’ve long since developed into quite the wart. If you were a character in any given Brendan Fraser movie, you’d be miserable, cowardly Beni, The Mummy’s whiny servant. I’m out here getting my ass kicked by a supernatural undead High Priest, while you watch in fear from a distance, like the ferrety, conniving little monster you are.

Do you know what you’ve gotten in the way of? Countless emails. Netflix. Doing taxes. Porn. Combinations of all four that I don’t need to explain here. The list goes on and on.

You’ve even gotten worse over time. The deterioration is noticeable. It now takes 15 seconds to connect to you upon opening my laptop. What am I supposed to do with those 15 seconds? Twiddle my thumbs? When’s the last time someone actually sat down and twiddled their thumbs?

It’s not like my roommates and I have been rude to you. We bought a brand new router for you to live in when you first moved in. We later picked up an AirPort Express for you to stretch your legs. That’s right, we bought you a goddamn pool house. What did you do in return? You spit in our faces.

Enough is enough. We have a Comcast technician coming to the apartment next week to take a look at you. Chances are, you know this. You’re probably already plotting to pull the same shit everyone’s “favorite” dancing frog once did and be normal when the technician walks in.

Before you move forward with that plan, read very carefully: fuck with me and I swear to the God I may or may not believe in that I’ll dedicate my life to transferring your energy into a physical form—which I imagine to be the shriveled baby-devil Voldemort becomes once all the pieces of his soul are destroyed—just so I can choke you with my bare hands.

Scrundle, the very phrase “bane of my existence” seems as though it was invented for you. Frankly, it’s never made total sense until you came into my life. You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to my white, privileged, middle-class life, and as such, I’m obligated to ignore everything else around me that’s good—just so I can focus on ruining you. That’s right. Watch your back.

Love,

Victor