I am in denial.

Yes, dear reader, I am waist-deep in the first of Kubler-Ross’ famous… I am in denial.

Yes, dear reader, I am waist-deep in the first of Kubler-Ross’ famous stages of grief, for I refuse to believe that my most beloved pocket-sized companion is in its dying days.

My iPod, named “Lance or Bruce” because I simply could not pick one over the other, is very, very sick. Too often, instead of greeting me with a jubilant screen of blue when I press his center button, Lance or Bruce whimpers and shows me a picture of a frowning file.

I know his days are numbered – all good things, especially expensive electronics, it seems, must come to an end – but it’s just so darn hard to accept it.

To help me mourn, I am dedicating this column to that rectangle of white plastic that has been there for me in the best and worst of times. I have written the following as a tribute. I call it “Elegy for an iPod.” Farewell Lance or Bruce. I’ll miss you.

It seems like just yesterday when you and I first met. You were very shy at first, and it didn’t help that I was so young and immature. To be honest, you overwhelmed me a little bit – you were just so big (40 gigs!) and at the same time so small (you fit in the palm of my hand!). But I talked to some of my friends and even read your manual, and before long I could turn you on in no time.

From that point on we were inseparable. You came with me to class, to the mall, to the gym. I plugged you into my car and you, sitting in a cup holder, assured me I would never have to deal with that insufferable commercial radio ever again. And I was so proud; I showed you off to all my friends.

“Hey Justin, you got the new Death Cab for Cutie?”

“Of course, Random High School Student No. 1. Show him, Lance or Bruce!”

You were the Silent Bob to my Jay; you never really had too much to say because your brain was made out of computer parts, but you were always at my side, ready to make an appearance if some clown thought his taste in music was better than mine