The piney flavor of his chosen IPA washed down most of the emotions he was choking on as he read his touchscreen. He wonders why more people aren’t alcoholic, if it’s this easy to put aside your problems. It’s certainly easier than succumbing to the self- triggered panic attacks he’s all but forgotten from his high school years.
The screen glared back at him, waiting to do its job and then be put back to sleep. The gnarled fingertips hovering over it were motionless, waiting for a cue from the nerve center that was currently in turmoil. Clicking the screen off, he exited of the car he was sitting in and tramps inside his room.
The larger laptop screen greeted him with an even harsher glare, mocking the lack of words or substance flowing in any direction at all. Pulling on anything he manages to grasp for more than a moment, ideas began to form in barely familiar clumps in his head. The words begin to appear, letter by letter, egging him on to try and do more, to go faster, to showboat; to diminish the raw immateriality of what he’s actually feeling.
Which he does without pause- there is no rhyme or reason to his life, why should there be here?