Apple, I’ve given you all and now I'm nothing.
Apple, two thousand dollars and ninety-nine cents, February 2, 2011.
I can’t stand my own iPad.
Apple, when will we end the mobile war?
Go screw yourself with your walled-garden.
No, I don’t feel well, please don’t bother me.
Your insane demands are making me ill.
When can I go into an Apple store and buy what I want with my good looks?
Apple, after all, it is you who is perfect, not Android or Symbian.
Apple, your rigid iOS dev rules are too much for me.
You make me want to be an IT guy.
Isn’t there some other way to settle this argument?
Steve Jobs is on medical leave.
I don't know if he’ll come back, and it feels somewhat sinister.
Yes, I'm trying to come to the point.
Apple, stop pushing me, I know what I'm doing.
I’m talking to you, Apple.
Are you going to let my code be dictated by digital bureaucrats?
It occurs to me that I may be Apple.
There I am, talking to myself again.
Apple, is this correct?
I'd better continue coding.
It's true I don't want to join Club Cupertino and create widgets.
I'm terribly nearsighted and obviously crazy.
So Apple, I’m putting my aching hands on the keyboard.
(With many apologizes to Allen Ginsberg's "America")