“FUCK,” you bellow, as your fingers crumble off of your metacarpal bones like dying Skeksis. It’s been a long time since you’ve typed anything of substance that wasn’t a work-related email or a Tenth Doctor/Martha Jones erotic fanfic…and it shows…by way of crumbly phalanges.
“I guess that’s what I get for writing ‘The Facial of Boe’ and posting it on 4chan,” you think, wondering how you’re going to eck out an existence or masturbate to rad prose that you scribed involving furry cat nurses and a million-year-old face in a vat now that you have no fingers.
“Well…this has gotta get done…” you think to yourself, despite an ominous feeling that some unseen force doesn’t want you to write. At all. Ever.
- If you say, “fuck it,” and continue typing with your elbows, go to section IV.
- If you say, “fuck it,” and continue typing with your semi-erect penis (made thus after thinking about that million-year-old face in a vat), go to section VII.
- If you say, “fuck it,” and decide to go get a beer, scratch yourself (with some assistance) and maybe have a life, go to section V.