new information pertaining to my enter key

A cigarette poised in my hand. I can see it. It's arabesque of pale smoke wafting ever upward, as if the very thoughts in my head had become material, and had decided to fly away. To a better place. Oh, cigarettes. With their fun, firey ash climbing slowly towards the smoker's hand. It's coming to get you! It's crazy like that. The burning end, so red, so dangerous. So happy and threatening. So tricky. So sneaky in a who's smoking whom kind of way. So much like a marachino-cherry ending to something that has no beginning. Just a smouldering, sinful, smokey treat with no calories for people called smokers to smoke whenever they want to. Forever. And this is not an inanimate object. This is a living thing. This is a cigarette enhanced by fire. Ingestible fire and pale smokey ideas. Because that's what we want to do. We want to smoke. And become a little bit more like fire and smoke. Every day. We try and try. Because fire is so great. It always wins. It's terrible and purifying. It clears the debris. It's back to zero. It says neither yes nor no. And it loves me. Fire does. And it's so pretty. It's fun and primitive. Fire. Nice to stare at. Nice to sleep near. Nice to listen to. Crackkkkle. And, if you listen very carefully to your cigarette, you'll know what I mean. That is the sound that smokers hear. Every single cigarette. Over and over. And cigarettes are just good (in their own right). They have so many things going on. Promise. Hope. Chance. Released, elegantly, one by one from a small magic package. Simple. Crisp. Brand new. Awaiting ignition. Who can believe that this will go away? Just dissolve into thin air? Where doe it go..? These are some of the things you can think about when you smoke. And one always smokes when one has chosen to take a reprieve, as if to say, I think I have earned a moment to pause. Non-smokers know nothing of this pause. Because stopping to eat, or walk around, breathe or think is NOT the same thing. And smokers know this. Smoking, and smokers are special. Smokers know something that non-smokers don't. That's why they smoke. Because they're cool. And the fact that smoking looks cool only attests to this. Ah. And that ash. It's never ending. And if you want it to be, it can be. And something tells me that it (the ash) wants to be never ending, too. [enter] I quit smoking. [enter] Ok. A couple of things. First of all, just to be clear, my enter key does work in a few other applications (except here, at my blog). That is, my enter key does not work in this blog or when I'm drafting email. But it does work when I'm posting a comment (on my own blog, for instance). And it works in wordperfect. I'm trying to think where else it has worked. PS, I am embarrassed to mention wordperfect. Only because someone recently made it seem as though I was grossly archaic for still using wordperfect. I didn't realize that wordperfect was over. I really didn't. It wouldn't have made any difference to me, but seriously, I didn't know. That is, until I heard this person burst into laughter when I mentioned it. I was thrown completely off guard. I did a double take. And those are hard to fake (and I have to imagine must be one of the trickier things for an actor to nail down). So, I was trying to figure out what was so funny (because I love so much to laugh) and just wasn't prepared for the brutal truth: I was literally a joke for still using wordperfect. At any rate, my enter key is not a result of a crumb (I recoil at the idea) that has found it's way beneath my keyboard. My keyboard is regularly vacuumed, as well as treated with q-tips. I say this to the tech out there who wouldn't listen to me and my strange symptoms, and instead gave me pithy advice (then logged off before I could completely explain the situation). And I guess for thirty dollars I could have a new keyboard, but something tells me that that wouldn't matter. Per everything that I've just said. I'm crabby. I need a smoke (see above). [enter].