I should have seen the signs. You’d grown sluggish and frozen at best. Cut scenes stopped without warning while communication grew sparse and distant. Sleep became the priority but it was never your fault.
I blamed the TV. I blamed the wireless controller, your cheap HDMI connections and those stupid games. I even blamed my wife for how she handled you during our recent move.
“Maybe it was my own fault,” I told myself. “It couldn’t be!”
Like a teen discovering his father’s stack of Playboy magazines, you introduced me to a whole new world of exciting opportunity. You showed me that cutting the cord was okay; Netflix and Amazon streaming were the answer. You rekindled old friendships through late night FIFA and CoD matches. You gave me live baseball and hockey from any city in the country. There wasn’t much you couldn’t do.
So now what?
After three stalled attempts and restarts to wake you, you showed me the dreaded ring of death. Alone and bored, do I bury you in the backyard, toss you in the trash with your now useless games or do I try and find someone to fix you?
With rumors of your impending replacement in the 720, the five years we spent together will surely only be a memory.
As you lie on your side, broken and alone in the corner, I wanted to tell you that it was a great run, old friend.
This is the death of my Xbox.