The Life of a Critic

To reach my destination,
I push buttons:
power up, password, click an icon.
My fingers slide on coal-colored plastic,
sweat slipping in the buttons' grooves.
More click-clicks and finger slips
and I'm ready for some stories.
Another name, another password
so I can read, push buttons.
I blink and select cyber routes,
electric surges swapping out the colors.
Will I see skinny black letters? I wish.
Thick letters, blobs of colors-
I wade through the word-forming shapes
evaluating its...
(Hell if I can select the best euphemism here.)
Stumbling on the characters,
I struggle to connect words.
The endings grate my eardrums.
I clack out the faults,
spell out my decision (with scant letters).
One last click advertises the trite scribbling.
My reward for my typing?
Skinny black needles poke me, cover my body
as they're gripped by amateurs with cloudy eyes.