Untouchable

I've had it.

So here I sit at my ol' Underwood, rapping my fingers: QWERTYUIOP.

Qwertyuiop. It's my salutation to the keyboard and begins my correspondence.

The keyboard responds:

FORGET THE WORLD. STAY HERE. YOU'RE UNTOUCHABLE HERE.

I think of the places where no one can bother me. When I'm in the shower. When I'm stuck in traffic. When I'm pleasuring myself. When I'm undergoing surgery. When I'm dead.

I've made this place my untouchable place. No one can get to me. The door is closed; the devices are turned off. Even my window is triple-glazed, blocking out the sounds of life.

I write what comes to mind:

I like not being bothered. I like being alone. Just me and my thoughts. Are they thoughts important enough to record? Maybe. Maybe not. But why take a chance? I type and I operate this industrial machine of transcription, pacing my heartbeats and brainwaves between the end-line bells and the strokes of the lever to advance to the next line. It is magic.

No one can bother me here.

Today is special because I'm prolific. My thoughts flow in black ink prints struck into the give of the paper fibers, like bloody footprints in the snow that lead to a killer.

Suddenly, the ink ribbon will advance no further. Here I am, where no one can bother me, and I am bothered. No ink. No thoughts. No words. Qwerty is dead. Just when I thought my Underwood was my comrade in the quest to not be bothered, I have decided it is the thing that has bothered me.

"Now, you, too?" I tell it, in a scornful tone that says, unmistakeably, "You are dead to me."

I leave the room and undress and turn on the shower faucet. Or worse.