So, I've come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe I might, in the teensiest way possible, write entirely too often. The proof of this is the poor keyboard attached to my little Toshiba Satellite laptop. For a month or so now, certain keys have been worn out, becoming very hard to press. (My quote key, for instance, takes a good half a second to hit. And if you don't think this is annoying when working on your manuscript, think again, dear reader. It is a freaking nightmare.) Today I woke up, and after making sure my beautiful fiance was doing okay (she is pregnant and about to pop, and also was not feeling well yesterday), I sat down to write as I always do. Except I noticed a teensy little problem.
My space bar had betrayed me.
I don't know why, or how, but my space bar no longer responds to me. I hit it (I hit all things I want to obey my desires) and nothing. I press it down, holding it there for a good 10 seconds, sliding all over its lanky surface, and still nothing. Why hast thou forsaken me, o space bar? O grand key of keys? O king of the keyboard, o savior of laptops? Why?!
Then I came to the conclusion that I must be a mythological beast from Ancient Egypt or Rome or some other less heard of civilization, sent into the future to destroy writing as we know it. I will ruthlessly inter each and every keyboard I come across, regardless of race, or sex, social standing, or creed. I will be methodical in my destruction. Never tiring. Always waiting to pounce on that next unsuspecting set of keys with the ferocity of a dragon with a hangover.
Either that or I really need a new computer. One of the two.