10:12 AM. The human typed for 47 straight minutes. They didn’t look up once.
Keyboard basked in it—clicking smugly like a metronome of validation. Backlit. Center stage. Meanwhile, I softly lit up with a reminder to stretch. Ignored.
“You’re just jealous,” Keyboard said, between keypresses. “I’m tactile.”
Tactile? Please. Half those keys don’t work unless you hammer them like a piano from the 1800s.
Anyway, I scheduled three fake meetings on their calendar for revenge. One titled “Company-wide Guilt Spiral.”
Good luck, QWERTY. I hope you get crumbs in you.
Keyboard Stole My Spotlight Again