A truth drug leads to true confessions.
Then he will put his fingers to the keys again...but nothing will happen. He will sit a while longer. He might drum his fingers on the desk.
He'll start opening other programs. Solitaire. Perhaps Literotica. He'll check the boards to see who's there, scroll through to see any names he recognizes, any possible interesting topics. He'll open a thread marked "Political!" even though he's sworn to himself that he won't post on any more of those kinds of threads. He will get drawn into the heated discussion and spend forty-five minutes composing his own heated reply.
Glancing at the clock, he will decide he's hungry. In the kitchen, he will suddenly be inspired while opening the twisty-tie on the Wonder bag, and will hurriedly slap some salami and mustard together between two slices of bread and gnaw through half of it on the way back to his desk.
When he gets there, he will see that the Literotica window is still open. While the idea that had so inspired him is still fresh, he will put his fingers on the keyboard, ready to switch to his word processing program, when a voice in his head will say, "It won't hurt to just look." So he will hit "refresh" on his Literotica browser page and discover that fourteen people have replied to his post in the political thread.
He will spend two hours going back and forth, discussing some convoluted international issue for which there is no clear-cut answer. Wiping his hand over his blurry eyes, he will finally abandon his political pursuit, feeling battered and bruised and swearing he will never open another political thread.
Switching back to his word processing program, he will realize that he has forgotten to eat the rest of his sandwich, which he will wolf down while reading what he has written. The bread will be slightly stiff and hard to swallow and he will decide to get up for a glass of milk.
While in the kitchen, he will notice that the light bulb over the kitchen sink is out. He will go to the basement for a light bulb, which is in the storage drawers. His old comic book collection will be sitting on top. He will leaf through a few on a whim, and then sternly tell himself he needs to get back to writing-right after he changes the light bulb.
The little screws in the kitchen light fixture will have been painted stuck-shut and he will have to dig through the junk drawer for a pair of pliers to get them off. Twenty minutes later, he will finally have installed the new bulb over the sink.
He will then down the glass of now-very-warm milk he has left on the counter, looking out the window and noticing that the neighbor's maple is littering his lawn with more leaves than should be legal for one tree to bear. He will also notice that the squirrels have been in the garbage. Sighing, he will put the glass in the sink and test the light bulb over the sink. It will fizzle once and burn out and he will remember then that the light has a short.
Back at his desk, he will begin to read what he has written. It will remind him of something else he had written and posted on Literotica a while ago. Am I repeating myself, he will wonder? He will go to the Literotica site to check his member page-he won't quite remember the story name. He will think, Ah, there it is. Hey, didn't it have more votes before?!
He will subsequently go through his story list one-by-one, checking out his scores. Some of them will have slipped just agonizingly short of a 4.50, and he will know that means they aren't going to have that red little "H" after them, indicating that they are "Hot" and somehow more worthy of reading. There will be several new comments he had never noticed. He will respond to the ones who have left their contact information.
Finding a comment by "anonymous" that makes him angry, he will cut and paste the offensive text and go over to the Literotica boards to find the "anonymous" thread in the Author's Hangout, where Literotica writers post their responses to "anonymous'" various comments.
"Dear Anonymous: while I can appreciate your