This one time at Writer's Camp…
It was the bucket of KFC (extra crispy) which helped that voodoo magic work. That, some black candles, some Sabbath (not the holy kind, unless you’re that big of an Ozzy fan), and an interpretive nude dance involving a tire pressure gauge and <<<censored>>>.
After a terrifying morning, my computer decided it was done mocking me and is now working fine. I am relieved, for I have a novel hanging over my head. Sort of like the sword of Damocles, but less Freudian. This has been your public service announcement, brought to you by the folk who brought you that guy from that one movie that you absolutely thought was almost as good as last summer’s favorite song.