She's the girl who sits and watches while others live a charmed life. The girl loves to write but doesn't know if she's any good at it. She loves rainbow sprinkled ice cream on a rainy day. She loves to take walks with the wind blowing. Giggling should be made a career. She tells you her secrets in not so many words.
That's three times in the span of two days, with the last of which sustaining the most damage. Three may seem like a pretty small number but for each of the three, more hours than I care for is spent repairing, amending, remembering and writing.
The first was greeted with an aimless walk around the home, the second with a prayer giving thanks but the last with warm tears and cries asking for answers. Eight pages of (forced) labor reduced miraculously to seven with huge gaps between texts, chunks of paragraphs encrypted and sentences moved to where they don't belong. Oh, joy.
I have a sneaking suspicion that this machine is the resting place for the soul of a tyrant in the field. So the paper wasn't up to standard, he/she didn't have to kill it, a short note would have done it, really. Whoever postulated that procrastination is a bad thing may want to reconsider going back to the drawing boards to attempt a rewrite.
The very thought of losing more words is one that haunts. The best words were removed. The ordinary ones are left to stand the test of grading.
ctrl+s, you're a terrible terrifying testing tyrant that makes me recoil in pain and lash out in anger.