That’s How Our Love Must Be, IE6Jun 23, 2011 In Web Culture By Nishant Kothary
I've been thinking about this for some time, and it's time we talk, IE6.
The clairvoyance of a lyricist never ceases to amaze me. Toto is a great case in point. They captured my recent feelings for you with the words, “As soon as forever is through, I’ll be over you,” almost two decades before we set eyes on each other.
Do you remember the day we met?
I logged into a lab terminal at Purdue University. There you were on my Windows XP start menu right below Netscape 6.1. I’d been with Netscape for a few years, so it felt wrong when I clicked on your, I have to admit now, gorgeous icon. That curve still gets me. It was love at first sight: from your marble skin and your beautiful buttons, to the way you made the Internet sing.
I wasn’t the only one enamored with you. Among the thousands of admirers you quickly amassed, even the man apart from the rest of us was accused of making you the apple of his eye. You were even at the top of the list for the valiant Web Standards Project.
It truly was your time, IE6, and for good reason—you were fast, intelligent, beautiful, and untainted, like Brook Shields in The Blue Lagoon.
But then the prophecy of another brilliant lyricist came to the foreground: “Love is blind, and lovers cannot see, The pretty follies that themselves commit.” Blind lovers we were, for none of us saw the skeletons. But, skeletons are never lost. They are only buried to be found. And time revealed yours, IE6, even if it was after we’d written home and told mom about you. We found all of them in their glorious betrayal.
In a decade, we went from being soul mates, marooned on an island in the caress of love, to this: a countdown to your demise brought to you by none other than your creator. Like Shah Jahan, you are imprisoned by your blood and left to die watching the Taj Mahal you helped build. Imagine: without you, would cats have been reborn as the comedians of our generation? No, indeed.
While you await your demise, your hair white, your curves collapsed much like your lungs that are hanging onto their last breath, I sit here encompassed in fear. What if I’ve underestimated the metaphorical depth of Toto’s prescience?
The thing is, even as we inscribe your name meticulously on a tombstone, my friends can’t stop talking about you. Everywhere I go, your future ghost follows. The incessant bitching is inevitable, I suppose; after all, you were a heartbreaker in a league of your own. But what really gets me biting my nails is how they keep watering the roots of your malevolent soul, encouraging you to haunt us forever more. For example, they write about you. In books!
Even less than a month ago, I read a book that dedicated entire sections to you. Not in that, “Remember IE6? Hahahahahaha!” sort of way, but as if you were still alive. You know, in that, “Oh, bloody hell, now let’s see how we can do this super-futuristic-awesome browser wizardry in IE6 using Weimaraner whiskers marinated in the the poop of a Tyrannosaurus Rex *grumble grumble*,” way.
I want to move on, IE6. I don’t even care to discuss our asset split. Here, I’m tearing up the prenup. You can keep the house. The car. The plant. My audio cassette collection. The stuffed-cat measuring tape. Everything. Well, everything but my Weimaraner. Trust me, you don’t want him anyway. He has separation anxiety. Seriously, do you need any more codependent ex-lovers?
Yes, I want to move on. But I can’t, because it’s clear that the world is not ready to move on yet. They’ve got some more bones to pick from those skeletons. And some royalty checks to collect.
And so it is, as soon as forever is through, I’ll be over you.
Your estranged lover,