The wire landed, slipped a fraction of a fraction of a millimeter, and bridged both contacts together in a tiny, silvery betrayal. I froze, staring at the accidental solder blob like it had just insulted my entire lineage.

“No problem,” I told myself, reaching for the desoldering wick. “I’ll just clean it up.”

That was the moment the universe decided to collect its comedy taxes.

I set the wick down, heated the blob, and the wick immediately adhered to the board like it had fallen in love. Not just a little snag. No, it latched on, as if asserting dominance. When I tried to lift it, the whole assembly twitched dangerously, flexing traces that definitely were not designed to flex.

My heartbeat climbed to boss-fight levels.

I tried nudging the wick loose. I tried a little more heat. I tried–I don't even know what I tried. Eventually the wick tore, leaving a frayed, scorched fragment still stuck to the pads like a burnt spiderweb. The board looked like it had survived a house fire.

This was the point where I just sat back, head in hands, staring at the smoking battlefield of copper, wick-fibers, and regret. My PSP was one questionable twitch away from becoming a very small, very modernized paperweight.