With their technomancy, the wunderkind will fiddle with wires, click a few keys, and within seconds resolve the issue. This small act turns the average person into a legend. The person they helped thinks of them as a patron saint who can be called upon with a short prayer to deal with technical shit, kind of like how St. Anthony can help you find your missing car keys.
Or St. Isidore of Seville, the actual patron saint of the Internet.
The ones who experienced the miracles tell tales of the Technomancer, and before long the Technomancer is called upon by others to solve their frozen screen issues or get rid of all those goddamned toolbars because nobody needs seven toolbars. From person to person, office to office, floor to floor, the legend grows. The Technomancer began as a mailroom clerk, or an intern, or any number of cogs in the wheel, but is now a vital (if unofficial) part of the office's flow of life. And they don't get paid an extra cent for it. Motherfucker ...
The Number of Minutes It Takes to Unclutter Your Computer Desktop Is Proportional to the Number of Days It Will Take to Reclutter It
It begins innocently enough. You leave a file or two on your desktop -- you're going to be using them for the next week, might as well keep them within sight. And then you download another file, like an album you torrented, and you're going to listen to it sometime soon -- might as well leave it on the desktop as well. It's just a couple of files. What could go wrong?
Three weeks later:
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The desktop looks like someone else's desktop exploded and some of their icon debris landed on your computer. It's helicopter footage of a Midwestern trailer park after a tornado. A FEMA convoy took one look at it and bailed. They cranked up "Born to Be Wild" and flipped you off as they turned around. It's time to get your digital shit together.
So, you clean. You file away things that had files to be in but were never put in them until now. You make new files and subfiles for the highly specific types of porn you've torrented in recent weeks. After an agonizing seven minutes of work, the clusterfuck of digital garbage has been sorted. Your desktop is clean.
If the whole cleaning process took seven minutes, you will have seven days of peace of mind with your desktop before it's once again declared a disaster area. Lessons are never learned. Organizational skills are never adopted where there formally were none. However many minutes it took to clean all that shit out and give your desktop that new-desktop feeling, just convert that number to days and you've got an accurate countdown until the next time you turn on your computer and think your C: drive got the stomach flu and barfed on everything.
Luis is busy making porn out of anything that isn't already porn. In the meantime, you can find him on Twitter and Tumblr.
And see why we need these rules in 22 Lies You've Probably Read Online (Revised for Accuracy).