what does it say that i spilled diet coke all over my laptop and i was more concerned with cleaning up the wood table, chasing the running liquid with a paper towel that wasn’t fast enough and it spilled like a waterfall over the edge, the dogs running towards the drips and me throwing a nearby hoodie onto the floor on top of it so they wouldn’t like up its dangerous xylitol or whatever fake sweetener that even i shouldn’t be consuming. i muted myself off the conference call and stared at my laptop keyboard, covered in something that would soon solidify into a sticky mess, unmoving, not wanting to clean it up. “This part of my life is over,” i wanted to declare. i wanted to close the machine, say a short prayer and toss it in the garbage. This part of my life.
I made it through college with a typewriter with a tiny screen that showed 2 lines, a word processor. who needs this thing, this brick i carry with m from room to room because if it pings and i don’t reply in a timely manner i call myself a failure who is always behind. i spout out all sorts of untruths about my worth in relationship to the number of unanswered pings and what would my sub-saharan ancestors think?
“Do you know when that’s supposed to come in?” s. asked.
I had forgotten I was on a conference call. I unmuted myself.
”No, but I’ll find out.”
I hit the mute button again and carried my laptop to the kitchen sink and tipped it to the side, watching brown liquid drip down on top of the unwashed dishes that I’d have to address at a later time, just like everything else, the dogs sniffing the hoodie on the floor like it was full of delicious cat turds.