Let's find out!

The MacBook Pro, shimmering silver, sat on my desk. It cost me three months of part-time busing tables at the greasy diner, and it was the key to my college applications - the ones I was already late submitting because I keep telling guidance counselors that I would jerk off to them every night. I stared at the screen saver, the picture of a vast, tranquil beach. This is good, I thought. Just plug it in. Just write an essay.

Then, that familiar hum started - that internal, metallic grinding that meant the autopilot was engaging. It was less a thought and more a physical wave of nausea that surged up from my gut. My mouth tasted like static electricity. Don't move. Don't look at the garage key hanging on the pegboard.

But my legs were already swiveling. I watched myself stand up, the movements deliberate and sickeningly smooth. My consciousness was screaming, "STOP! This is your only chance! You need this!" but my feet were tracing the precise, worn path to the shed where Dad keeps the gardening tools and the fuel cans. I grabbed the red plastic can labeled 'Unleaded.'

I knew, with perfect clarity, that destroying this $2,500 ticket to a potentially less-horrible life meant I wouldn't get into any school I wanted. I would be trapped, destined for that greasy diner forever. That knowledge, that pure, unadulterated opportunity for complete and utter future failure, felt like a warm, satisfying blanket to the cursed part of my brain.

Back in my room, I set the can on the desk next to the pristine investment. My fingers, twitching just slightly, flipped the laptop open, illuminating the keyboard. I gripped the handle of the gasoline can and angled the spout toward the keys, tasting the acrid fumes already clinging to the air.

The compulsion was absolute, overwhelming the last, distant vestiges of my conscious will. A thick, oily stream of gasoline poured directly onto the screen and into the vents. The sickening slosh sound was deafening. I didn't stop until the can was empty and the keyboard was slick with noxious fuel. Then, just to be absolutely certain the damage was maximized, I reached into my pocket, pulled out a cheap plastic lighter, flicked it on, and tossed the tiny flame right onto the puddle.

The flash was immediate and terrifyingly bright. The laptop was engulfed instantly, the flames a sickly orange-blue. I had to jump back as the heat radiated outward and the flames licked up toward the ceiling.

My mom walked in just seconds later, drawn by the sudden smell of burning electronics and highly flammable petroleum products. She took one look at the miniature bonfire blazing on my desk, sighed a sound of pure resignation, grabbed the fire extinguisher from the hall, and smothered the flames.

She stood there, surveying the smoking, charred puddle of melted plastic that was once my computer, my future, and three months of hard work.

"Well, Tom," she said flatly, wiping a streak of sweat from her nose with the back of her hand. "Looks like you’ll be buying a new computer."

She didn't ask why. She didn't scream, "Are you trying to burn down the house?" She didn't wonder if I was having a psychotic break. She barely even wrinkled her nose at the residual smell of gasoline and burnt lithium. She just treated it like I’d accidentally left a plate of cookies out too long and they had spontaneously combusted.

This was normal. This was my life. And I had another three months of saving ahead of me, only to inevitably repeat the vicious, horrible cycle. My reward for working hard was seeing how quickly I could destroy the fruits of that labor.

I just nodded, already calculating how many shifts I’d need to pick up. I needed to focus on saving money, which meant, by the curse’s logic, I was about to walk outside and flush my remaining $40 down the toilet. I couldn't stop myself. I did that and went to bed. I opted for not having dinner as I was very hungry.