Uncomfortable moment #1

A pair of tan hands clip their swollen, red-cigar fingers maniacally along the keyboard—the same pair of tan hands which appear older than they are, clip along the qwerty while a pair of exhausted bloodshot eyes demands and expects them to perform outrageously above their capabilities. “Think of something”, the pair of menacing eyes are attached to a shrewd, puckered face that whips the fingers raw with expectation. “You’ve earned an undergrad in English. You should be able to write something worth reading.” Fingers will not dance along to a Fox Trot when the mind knows perfectly well they are contemptible idiots whom could not hack a Texas two-step. The mind knows that the degree they all received in English Literature is disgraced by their deplorable grammar and continuity in vagueness and casual tone. Those debased mitt hands took a beginners piano class for an elective and squashed their sausage fingers along the ivories turning Mozart into monstrous. Now, they tinkle the keyboard and the cryptic muscle spasms cosplay as productive typing but results in a fecal text that is figurative scatology discoveries. Burning eyes, foul breath, and a curved spine. The ability to sit and stare for hours and the habit of typing whilst forgetting to send cognitive thought to those bloated carrot fingers. Thank you university.