I Am A Loud Typer And It’s My Passion

I woke up today and knew I once again had to follow my passion: bothering strangers until they rip their hair out. I do the same thing every day, and I genuinely love my work. The hours are flexible, I make zero dollars an hour, and I can empty a coffee house in less than ten minutes, surprisingly with something other than my odor.

That’s right: I am a loud typer.

Everyone hates me. I know this because I am screamed at daily. But the pure happiness I get from transforming joy into rage simply cannot be beat. It’s like no other feeling in the world. It’s even better than chewing with your mouth open or snapping my fingers for no reason.

I type like a court stenographer on cocaine.

My daily routine consists of going to different coffee shops all over the city. I enter quietly so as to seem normal, order a medium coffee, and without warning, commence my performance. My typing is beautiful, like 100 tiny civil war cannons firing sporadically. People instantly begin to glare at me, but I want them to glare; I love the attention. They say: “Who is this guy?” or, “God, he is so annoying” or, “That sounds like dyslexic morse code.”

The sighs of annoyance fill the building in seconds. The coffee house staff, in an attempt to maintain sanity, raise the volume of their calming piano music to drain me out. But I am much louder. I am persistent. My typing reminds people of a woodpecker with braces.

Customers begin to leave, and soon I am left alone. Even the homeless man hiding in the bathroom runs voluntarily back out to homelessness. Now it’s just me, typing, being stared down by the coffee house manager. He approaches me and says: “Give me your drink, I’m going to spit in it.” A confident smile appears on my face. I hand him my drink. I continue typing out my unrhythmic dubstep.

At my apartment, I type all through the night. My typing echoes off the halls of my complex like a series of rifle blasts in a war zone, which can be heard from the church across the street. I’ve heard the Pastor yelling: “Who has a typewriter in 2020?” and, “I’m trying to pray, please shut the fuck up” and, “God accepts all his children. All but you!”

I receive noise complaints constantly. I’ve even received bomb threats from my wife. But my typing only intensifies, like I’m playing whack-a-mole with my fingers. The cops show up at my door at least once a week. They know me by name and hate me by nature. But I don’t care. Nothing makes me happier than causing complete distress, conflict, and ulcers the size of baseballs.

Recently something marvelous occurred: I was banned from college. It started with the English department. I was typing notes in class. Next thing I know, the professor is telling me I should be deported. He may be a bit racist, as I’m Brazilian, but I know it was really due to my typing. Soon the science, math, and social studies department all rallied against me and petitioned to kick me out of college. Not just that college. All colleges. Forever.

Now I am divorced, uneducated, and my parents put me up for adoption at 23. My new goal is to type next to wild animals and strive for their hatred and possibly their bigotry. I’ll get there. I always do. I am now in the wilderness typing with my palms like a chubby toddler. Though most creatures find me endlessly annoying, I have been attracting some unwanted attention from a male population of Northern Cricket Frogs. Now I am annoyed.