Something I learned in class last night.

Rapid writing exercise. We couldn’t take the pen off the paper until she told us too. 

The first time I put on shoes opened the fridge hit a ball went to the park by myself wore a watch hung a shirt did my laundry spoke used a computer played a video game used a pen wrote a sentence.

Parakeets were the main topic until about fifth grade, then I moved on to pizza. By high school, my handwriting was bad. By college it was worse. By adulthood it was completely shot. Now it’s a hybrid – doctors’ notes, pigeon scratch, illegible as I am literate.

A badge of modern pride, a sad mourning of the beginning. The notebooks I kept since 13… light, faded grey pencil. Smell of paper… and then…

…computer. Type. Hard. Loud. Crack. My wrists now hurt for a different reason. Little wrsist, long type, big words, big screen. And when it comes back around to using a pen – well, I just can’t do this anymore.

Seriously. Please. Make it stop. My wrist may fall off. My pen might stab me.

I’m a caged writer, trapped in a computer monitor, biting the keyboard that feeds me.

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