The Only Thing That Loves Me or Cullen Steps Off the Rails Again

Yesterday I was sitting in front of the Devil Box, thinking, when I noticed something. I was caressing the keyboard. Stroking it gently.

Let that sink in for a moment.  I was sitting there, idly drawing my fingers across the keys.

There were three animals in the house, not counting the mouse the cat refuses to kill.  Each has nice, soft fur.

And here I was.  Caressing the keyboard.

Out there in the world existed plenty of women.  Beautiful, intelligent, hopefully single women.

And here I was.  Caressing the keyboard.

For the past few days, I’d struggled to write anything of note at all.  The urge to kill, or at least play MAG for hours on end, had been rising.

And here I was.  Caressing the keyboard.

Felt pretty damn good doing it, surprisingly enough.

But it’s still a very strange thing to do.

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