Why? Because the typewriter is such a heavy, final instrument — it demands conviction of thought. There’s no screwing around with a typewriter; you’d better mean what you say, since it’s going to be a bitch to remove those words from the page. And if you’ve got carbon paper… well, let’s just say you’d better mean those words. No screwing around.

Hell, it’s not a position I asked for. It’s a position I inherited.
A few years ago, I was a mere assistant, happy to simply be a part of a bigger machine, a team that seemed like it was engineered to win. Every time. We won seventy straight games, blowing away the previous record by twenty-three. […]

He lit his cigarette, slowly turning it clockwise like one would a cigar. Then he slumped back into his chair while clearing his thoat.
“The thing is,” he said, exhaling the smoke,”I really *am* misunderstood. It’s not just a cliché.” I nodded. “They think of me and images of ‘evil’ come to mind.” Puff. “Extraordinary, really.”
“And […]

The following is a brief account of my slow descent into sleep-deprived madness.

Daytona Beach, Summer 1993—Some friends and I drop acid and spend the night in a motel. In the morning, one of them complains that I kept him up all night with my hideous snoring. No one has ever before told me I snore, […]