i could try to relive my angsty youth and force you to read a sad poem about how hard life and force you to read a sad poem about how much things hurt. but instead i am going to comiserate about how hard

it is to type on a typewriter. there is a little voice in my ear asking me what am i doin? i dont think she means metaphoricaly, as in, what am i doing with my life or youth. i think she is just annoyed by my emtire lack of artistic process. so i lied, the angst!!! anyway, kind of neat to start the story for today. one...once upon a time... (see, told you i cant type)...