It mocked me; blinking innocently to the beat of the barely audible music that tickled my speakers. The cursor. That bastard. It laughed at every newly uncurtained character that poured through my fingertips.
It just waited, full of expectation and encouragement. It was a false friendship. My mind boggled at how much of a douchebag some things in life turn out to be. I was losing faith in the world.
Like a high school buddy telling you to try something new, only so he can capture it on his cheap camera phone and paste it on fliers that wallpaper the hallways; this thing was sick. Twisted. Was there ever a more disgusting necessity for electronic textual creativity?
I seriously doubted it.
I’m thinking: you know, cursor, you’re right. I can do it. This sentence is going to be the most wonderfully descriptive parcel of language ever to unravel behind such a disgustingly cheerful cursor like yourself. But like the repulsive two-faced sickly black line of pixels you are, you will turn against me. Faster than I can come up with a new adjective.
Really? That’s what you came up with? A couple of adverbs and some misplaced modifiers. What a cliché. You know you write with a lot of fragmented sentences, right?
Not everyone has a stupid squiggly green line running in their heads all the time. Some thoughts drain faster toward the keyboard than others which may or may not be more grammatical. And what do you know about grammar? Prescriptivist. Perhaps, my writing style is fragmented for a reason. Or, perhaps I can’t get a complete thought down one blinding white background because I have a fucking cursor judging my every keystroke. I’d like to see you type something that…well…anything. So, I’m waiting… But, what’s this? Nothing’s happening, you jerk. In fact, I think my mind would implode if you did. It would be that…upsetting…unsettling…utterly distressing. Shut up.
I bet it though it was skinnier than I am. Better than I am. Typical. Sounds like a cursor. I have curves, and it makes me interesting to look at, which is oodles more than I can say for you. Why oodles? Because I’m also creative; it’s an organic thing. You wouldn’t get it.
Another thing: why was it called a cursor? It’s something you curse at. Duh. Too bad it was too stupid to get it. It just blinked, oblivious. Or, I couldn’t tell what it was thinking right then. It had one damn good poker face. It probably thought it was doing me a service; marking where my next thought should go. It couldn’t tell me what to do. That bastard! Come, mouse, let us leave this stale line of text.
Oh, and you’re more popular than I am too, eh? You’re a tool. Literally, a tool. I just want you to know: the nonexistence of a cursor, though it would likely piss people off, would not collapse a single electronic or mechanical structure. You are not an integral part of any program whatsoever.
And that’s when it hit me. The same went for me. Fuck. Not just electronic or mechanical structures, but, like, social structures…yeah, but I’m not a tool.
I had to wonder: was there a cursor god? Because he was mocking me too.
Ha, and what really burned my brownies was that no matter how much the cursor mocked me and feigned innocence like the complete jerk it was, it had to be there. And the cursor knew it. I should have hand written this because it was leading my every thought on the page. Brainwasher!
This was ridiculous. It was playing a game with me. I was working hard on planting my creativity firmly in published print and the damn cursor thought it was a joke. This was my life’s work. I couldn’t even look away, because I knew it was still blinking. Thinking. Judging.
Some people have an open mind, cursor. They don’t go around comparing people to some arbitrary standard that only fits around your nauseatingly geometric form. The worst part is that you won’t even change. How bigoted can a column of pixels be? It’s appalling!
I’ll even type repugnant, because every part of the word, even its spelling is repugnant. I just needed to see your sleazy erect self place it on the page. You should go take a shower and short out, you piece of shit.
I felt my writing was at least worthy of peer praise. If anything, I had the determination to finish what I started. Unlike the cursor; it could sit and blink for hours, mid-word, just to aggravate people. Well, it won’t get anywhere in life that way. Idiot. It was just the middle man, an often optional position. Someday, it would become obsolete. It had to. I refused to believe that creative writing using technology would be anything less than a human-to-human endeavor.
This does not concern you, cursor! I am only expressing my creativity for the enjoyment of other HUMAN BEINGS! You are not an animate object!
I was hit again. This time it hurt. Damnit! I was such a dumbass. Just what that damn cursor wanted.