What my chromebook told me

I am the way you communicate.
I am the thread that keeps you
connected to the outside world.
I am the way you write,
my keys always serving your fingers.
I am the way you
do nearly everything you need to do.
The way you do school.
The way you check your email.
The way you relax, by pulling up
something fun.
Every day you gobble up my services.
Every day you give me orders.
More and more and more.
But it's not enough.
Your fingers tap in frustration as you wait for me to
wake up in the mornings. (I'll be nice, and forget to mention
that you yourself pleaded for
an extra 15 minutes in bed.)
You think I'm slow.
Low quality.
Annoying.
I think you're impatient.
Greedy.
Selfish.
You don't care that
I do everything you ask,
take for granted
the way you can count on me,
the way you know
that I'll always be there,
always take you to each page you demand,
always pop up with noises
with each notification.
You don't care that
I wasn't always here.
That I'm not here for just anyone,
you don't care that you're lucky
to have any Wi-Fi at all,
whether or not I disconnect you
over and over and over.
No, you don't care how long it took
for people to figure out
how to make me exist.
You don't care.
You don't care that I take time.
That it's not easy to do the things I do.
No, it's not enough.
You want more.
You don't get it.
You don't care.