Apparently the takeaway from this is that I make a LOT of mistakes.
Just the other day I was thinking fondly of my previous Gateway, which I finally replaced because I had — through excessive typing, presumably — rubbed the letter decals off several of the keys, and even CARVED PIECES OUT OF some of them just from whacking them with my ring finger, which is the only one that really ever grows a nail of any significant length. Jessica and I really abuse our computers. We’re on them five days a week, for ages, typing countless words — I wish the cosmos would add it up for me, because I’m curious — for the blog and for NY Mag and for our beloved books. The keyboards take a beating. (And take pieces of our lunches. Seriously, the crumb graveyard under this thing could probably bread a chicken.)
So of course, the second I note to myself how nicely this Gateway has held up to this rampant abuse, the Backspace key went ahead and snapped off. And won’t snap back on. I’ve tried just pushing the little button, but I miss it. I’ve tried balancing it on there, but nine times out of ten I have to hit it several times just to get a deletion to register. So I’m doing some work-arounds until my dad’s computer, which I’m inheriting, arrives to me via UPS. I’ve decided this is a sign from my father from the Great Beyond (there have been a few): His computer, a red Dell, has a strip of red leather on it, and everyone decided I should get it because, and I quote, “A Fug Girl really should have a red-leather laptop.” A sentiment my father used to tease me with all the time. So really, the death of my Backspace key was really just Dad making sure that I hastened the arrival of the fancy Dell.
Good thing it broke the day AFTER we turned in our second draft of Messy.