The writer laughed and smashed his keyboard. “Dammit, now I need a new one,” he muttered to himself, cursing his rashness. “Now I will actually need to go to the store to buy a new keyboard. I will have to spend real money now, replacing this, because I gave in to the heat of passion. Might as well bust it to bits even more, huh? Might as well bust it to bits with a hammer!” But he didn’t have the heart to. The chimpwave had passed. He stood up and paced the room. It was dark. It was the middle of the night, in the middle of the woods. He had rented a cabin to try to finish his current writing project, titled “The Unapologetic Racist.” He was right wing and obsessed with politics, a circumstance that had brought him nothing but misery and anguish.
Relatable on too many levels