Enter Henry, returning home from a day of doing little at his job. Spies something awry near the computer.
Henry: What has happened to the keyboard?
Keyboard is half-dead, whimpering, with its space bar dangling from its socket. Those plastic-proppy things are snapped clean off the back and lay in a dilapidated fashion on the computer desk. A mysterious prong-y apparatus also sits in discarded discord.&
Erin, nervously: I don’t know. It’s been like that all day. Fiddles with cuticles.
Henry, inspecting it closely: Strange, it wasn’t like that last night.
Erin, self-righteously: I DID NOT DO THAT. I SWEAR TO GOD. IT WASN’T ME.
Henry, in a goading tone: Erin.
Erin, screaming hysterically and obviously: IT WASN’T ME I SWEAR TO GOD!
Henry: This is an Erin-move. It has your name written all over it. So, what pissed you off and made you smash it?
Erin: OKFINEITWASMEITWASN’TWORKINGANDIGOTANGRY!
Henry provokes Erin some more, laughing at her state of frantic imbalance. Walks over to shuffle through the mail.
Henry, holding up a flyer from Full Sail, a recording arts school, reads it out loud: “Create a career in music.”
Erin, still ruffled about the appropos inquisition: I don’t want a career in music! I want a career underground, in a casket.
Henry, still perusing the flyer: Let me help you with that.