Author's Note: This is written with a nod to the children's book:
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.
Enjoy!
If you give a writer a laptop...
He's going to want a word processing program to go with it. And if you give him a word processing program, and he spends enough time reading stories on Literotica, he will probably feel inclined to write something on it. He might want to sit at a table or desk, which means he'll need a chair. As he's writing, he'll type furiously, stop, stare at a blank spot on the wall for a while and then go back to his mad dash across the keyboard.
The cat will come and rub up against his legs and use them as a self-massager for a while before settling in his lap. He won't notice until the cat starts kneading his leg through his trousers, at which point, he will swear and sweep the cat onto the floor and exclaim, "Can't you see I'm writing here!?"
Then he'll swear again, and start reading what he's written from the beginning, mouthing the words to himself as he goes. He will snort laughter at one point, shaking his head and smiling. Then he will put his fingers to the keys again...but nothing will happen. He will sit a while longer. He might drum his fingers on the desk.
He'll start opening other programs. Solitaire. Perhaps Literotica. He'll check the boards to see who's there, scroll through to see any names he recognizes, any possible interesting topics. He'll open a thread marked "Political!" even though he's sworn to himself that he won't post on any more of those kinds of threads. He will get drawn into the heated discussion and spend forty-five minutes composing his own heated reply.
Glancing at the clock, he will decide he's hungry. In the kitchen, he will suddenly be inspired while opening the twisty-tie on the Wonder bag, and will hurriedly slap some salami and mustard together between two slices of bread and gnaw through half of it on the way back to his desk.
When he gets there, he will see that the Literotica window is still open. While the idea that had so inspired him is still fresh, he will put his fingers on the keyboard, ready to switch to his word processing program, when a voice in his head will say, "It won't hurt to just look." So he will hit "refresh" on his Literotica browser page and discover that fourteen people have replied to his post in the political thread.
He will spend two hours going back and forth, discussing some convoluted international issue for which there is no clear-cut answer. Wiping his hand over his blurry eyes, he will finally abandon his political pursuit, feeling battered and bruised and swearing he will never open another political thread.
Switching back to his word processing program, he will realize that he has forgotten to eat the rest of his sandwich, which he will wolf down while reading what he has written. The bread will be slightly stiff and hard to swallow and he will decide to get up for a glass of milk.
While in the kitchen, he will notice that the light bulb over the kitchen sink is out. He will go to the basement for a light bulb, which is in the storage drawers. His old comic book collection will be sitting on top. He will leaf through a few on a whim, and then sternly tell himself he needs to get back to writing—right after he changes the light bulb.
The little screws in the kitchen light fixture will have been painted stuck-shut and he will have to dig through the junk drawer for a pair of pliers to get them off. Twenty minutes later, he will finally have installed the new bulb over the sink.
