It’s Friday, and the weekend is upon us.
Or that’s what they say. Everyday is pretty much the same for me, but that’s because I’m not working at the moment. I’m not retired either…I’m, well…it’s complicated. Let’s just say, my therapist thinks this is good therapy for me, and leave at that. Okay?
So, this is a new beginning, of sorts. I’ve always been a writer, a scribbler, from my early youth. Some of my earliest memories are scribbling down words in notebooks during summer holidays, the sun beating on my back, and not caring. I was in my element. I remember one of my fondest memories was buying my first typewriter. I remember the feeling of it, not the make, or the price, or even how old I was. I know I had to be at least sixteen. (I still had to pay for it, didn’t I, and to do that I had to have a job. I was a chicken fryer in case you were wondering.) I never did understand why I didn’t take typing class in school. (That’s were all the girls were!)
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