There is a relatively small box I just dug out of my garage which contains approximately thirty years of riff-raff and which offers a little insight into Me.
I have no idea why I held on to some of the things in The Box, and I have no idea why I hang on to them still, but it has been carried with me from place to place and through a couple of lifetimes it seems.
As I was sorting through The Box just now, I pulled out a piece of paper with actual typewriter print on it. You remember typewriters? Those archaic dinosaurs we actually used to use to write letters with? Oh, you don't remember letters either...do you? Tsk, tsk.
A note is handwritten at the bottom of this typewritten page that says, "I wrote this on a bad morning in typing class. Mrs. Pitts gave us the stupid assignment of writing a short story and then typing it for practice. So, here's what she got. Stupid Mrs. Pitts." It's dated only, "1984." I was a sophomore in high school.
Poor Mrs. Pitts. She made the horrendous choice of marrying Mr. Pitts, knowing full well that her first name was Armand. Didn't she have any other suitors worthy of her hand? She must have really loved him to become Mrs. Armand Pitts.
By the time Mrs. Pitts had the misfortune of having me land in one of her typing classes, her hair had turned, for some odd reason, a palish sort of blue. She always wore a sweater over her shoulders and she gave the impression of possibly having been raised by Miss Manners herself.
Her fingers were long and spindly and they kind of freaked me out. She was always pointing them at me. She pointed out the fact that my nails were too long and needed to be short in order to be a typing wiz. She pointed out that I had bad posture. She pointed out that I wasn't paying attention. What was with this woman?!
Anyway, this was my short story, typed for practice:
Once upon a time there was a pretty young lady who had to go to a yucky typing class every day. This young lady was a very tolerant and peaceful girl, so she went every day without saying one naughty word.
One day, the young lady's typing teacher, The Lady With the Blue Hair, got real angry at one of her students and threw a hissy fit. This made the young lady quite upset for she hated to see anyone so out of sorts.
So, very quietly, knowing the other students hated The Lady With the Blue Hair, the young lady took the blue haired lady's letter opener and stabbed her through the back.
The whole class cheered and cheered and cheered and cheered. The young lady took over the teacher's class and they all lived happily ever after.
A short story by a Young Lady
A few things occurred to me after reading this:
Number 1: I may have had some violent tendencies as an adolescent.
Number 2: I am a very speedy and accurate typist. I never took another typing class other than Mrs. Pitts'. Hmmmm. I think I owe her an apology.
Number 3: If I would have written this today, it would have been found on my hard drive by the school's Net Nanny and when I arrived in class the next day, I would have been jumped by a SWAT team, hauled to the hoosegow for questioning, booted out of school, and had my face on the local nightly news. "Local Teen and Poor Typist Arrested For Assassination Plot."