I’ve been seduced. I’ve been to heaven. I’ve been to an Apple Store.

Recently, I became the owner and operator of a gently used MacBook Pro. I like it. I like it a lot. Now, I’ve used Macs before, for work, and have always liked them. I’ve even openly preferred them to PCs because I never had as many problems with them. And I carry the Y2K virus in my blood. Yet, I’ve always had PC laptops. No reason, it was just the way I went. Maybe it was price. Maybe I’m cheap.

This MacBook Pro (we must refer to it by its proper name) had a blown out/melted/busted up battery. It’s a design flaw and wouldn’t hold a charge, and according to the guys at the Genius Bar, having a battery like this around the house wasn’t safe. This was the first reason I ended up at the Apple Store. The second was that this MacBook Pro seemed to shut down the night before when I attempted a Snow Leopard install. I couldn’t get the screen to turn on. It just stayed black. Dark. Cold. This is also a design flaw. Turned out that the program was running, though it just didn’t seem that way. It’s common with the version of Snow Leopard I had.

So, I took my MacBook Pro into the Apple Store.

I was nervous after making my appointment because I told the girl on the phone, “I’ve never done this before.”

“Ugh,” she harrumphed. “Well, I can set up an appointment for you.” She sounded put out, even offended at my virginity.

I was afraid I’d walk in and they’d smell the PC on me. That they’d hand me a mint in the shape of the Apple logo and tell me to wash myself. To exorcise my PC demons. That I’d be laughed at for texting my new-found pen pal on a Sprint phone. I was concerned that the Genius Bar would be a bunch of douche computer geeks who were brainwashed by Steve Jobs and his black turtleneck to think they were better than everyone – especially PC users.

I was wrong. The store was alive. Bright. Warm. I was greeted by a kind young woman and told to hang out a bit, look around… that I was early and that someone would come find me. Seven minutes later, right at 6 p.m., a nice guy named Levi (not Johnston, sorry) came up to me.

“Hi. David, right?”

“Yep.”

“I’m Levi.”

“Johnston?”

“No. Sorry.”

I gave him the break down and he explained that these were problems, but no worries, they could be fixed. He ejected my copy of Snow Leopard and plugged in his hard drive and went to work installing the latest operating system. Then he replaced my battery for free. Then he ran software updates for me and we chatted about external hard drives and Safari versus Firefox and printers. I may have invited him and his wife over for dinner. After all, Levi was my friend.

During the longer installs, I perused the store and fell in love. The sweet, smooth interface of everything; it was gorgeous. Things were so clean and organized. It was an anal retentive’s Nirvana and I could not have been happier. I’ve never been one to buy into branding because I know how it works. But my God… I succumbed.

I wanted to buy every last item in that store. I wanted a new MacBook Pro. I wanted a desktop. I wanted an iPhone 4G, an iPhone 3GS, an iTouch, an iPad, an iPod and the speakers to plug them into. I wanted cases for all of these things. I wanted to replace my lungs with MacBook Airs. I wanted my kidney to run on an iPhone just like I’m sure Steve Jobs’ does. I wanted to be a Mac.

And after I bought all these things and rewired my innards, I wanted to run down the street to The Gap and buy a black turtleneck. Just like Steve Jobs wears.

I might have a PC at work but at the end of the day, I’m coming home to my MacBook Pro and a closet of black turtlenecks.

You ask me, I’ll tell you: I am a motherfucking Mac.