Apple Club: A Fight Club Rant Against iPhones and Macs
Man, I look at Apple and I feel sick. I see some of the smartest engineers alive, and I see them wasting it. God damn it, a trillion-dollar company serving me the same recycled rectangle every year while convincing the world it’s a revolution.
I’ve watched an entire generation around me get hypnotized by a bitten fruit. I’ve seen people flex green bubbles like it’s a personality trait, brag about owning the “Pro Max Ultra Super” version of the exact same phone they already had. And they’ll line up at midnight, wallets wide open, to do it again.
Apple has me—has all of us—chasing “magical” cameras and “revolutionary” ports, selling us courage for removing the headphone jack, then charging us for a dongle to bring it back. USB-C? They call it innovation. 120Hz? They act like it’s a miracle. A $999 monitor stand? They sell it like it’s luxury.
I feel like the middle child of technology. No Great Invention, no Great Leap—just thinner bezels and shinier boxes. My Great War is with planned obsolescence. My Great Depression is watching my iPhone throttle itself at 30% battery while Apple tells me it’s “for my own good.”
And don’t even get me started on Macs. Two grand for a laptop that heats up if I dare open Chrome, and I’m supposed to thank Apple for fixing the same butterfly keyboard they broke in the first place. They hand me a walled garden and call it Eden, but I know I’m trapped inside—forced to buy a $20 dongle just to connect to the real world.
I was raised on Apple keynotes to believe one day I’d be holding the future in my hands. Instead, I’m holding the same damn phone, year after year—shinier, pricier, emptier. And now I know the truth: Apple isn’t selling me innovation. They’re selling me status. They’re selling me the illusion of freedom, while charging me monthly rent for my own cage.
And I’m pissed.
Very, very pissed.