writer with a lowercase w (on writing in a life full of limitations
Last Sunday, my laptop broke for the third time this year. The first time was my fault: I stupidly left a bottle of water unscrewed in my backpack, only realizing my error once I saw my backpack leaking all over the linoleum floor. By the time I pulled out my poor laptop, it was too late to resuscitate it. The second time was Best Buy's fault: the refurbished replacement they sent me turned out to be tied to a former Doordash employee, and despite powerwashing the machine ad nauseam, it never let me bypass the security set-up screen. And the third time was a cruel trick from fate, who decided it would be funny to crash my new laptop's entire system right in the middle of my scheduling a doctor's appointment. All of that's a long way to explain why I'm sitting in the laundromat, mooching off their free WiFi and typing this post on a Chrome tablet that looks like an upscale Fisher Price toy. And, man, would you believe me if I told you this is somehow the most I'