My four-day meltdown over buying a Mac Mini has finally burned itself out. After mourning the supposed death of my Windows life, wrestling two USB hubs into place, learning how to coax footage out of my Nikon Z30’s card reader, and plugging in the printer, mic, and camera without a single blood sacrifice, I’ve arrived at an unthinkable conclusion: the Mac Mini works. Beautifully. The true villain of this saga wasn’t Apple at all—it was my Asus gaming keyboard, a neon-lit diva with firmware that refused to speak the Mac’s language. I spent days wondering why my keystrokes vanished into the void before finally facing the truth: the Mac wasn’t confused; it was offended.
So I brokered a diplomatic exchange with my daughter. I surrendered the petulant Asus and reclaimed my old Das Keyboard, a respectable mechanical slab that speaks fluent Mac with zero drama. Now everything hums along: no heat, no fan whine, no mysterious failures—just quiet competence. Will I buy another Mac someday? Ask me again in five years. For now, I’m enjoying the peace of a machine that doesn’t ask me to troubleshoot its feelings.
Cinemorphosis 
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