Fuck You, Karen
A significant co-conspirator sits rigidly on the desk in front of me. To most, it is probably viewed as just a cast-off anachronism left lingering from a by-gone era. Or maybe a solid footprint of trendy, hipster typewriter nonsense. But to me, it is the only tool that ever helped me truly unlock the stories of me. It forces me to focus while simultaneously allowing me the freedom to explore, free from electric distractions. I can break rules without angry suggestions interfering with my flow– because my mind is wired to fix immediate problems. And the evil red squiggles found glowing on other machines always win the battle for my attentions. It’s a much-abused Sterling– an absolute brute of a writing machine. Not as pretty as …
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