madam doesn’t use a computer for her articles. she has this super old typewriter, like an antique or something, and it’s just… wow. i’m so obsessed with it. the clacking sound, the way the keys feel, even the ribbon ink that gets on her fingers sometimes. it’s so madam. every time she’s done with an article, she hands me the pages, and i type them up for the magazine.

but, okay, so the other day she wasn’t around, or so i thought, and i couldn’t resist. i was like, “what if i just try it out?” just a couple of keys, you know? ugh, bad idea. the second i pressed the “A,” madam walked in. i swear, her glare could cut steel. i tried to explain, but nope. she pointed to the whiteboard in the corner of the office and told me, “you’ll write your apology there. a hundred times.”

so there i was, scribbling “i won’t touch madam’s typewriter” over and over, feeling like bart simpson in detention or something. by the time i finished, my hand was cramping, and she just smirked and told me to clean the board for her when i was done. lesson learned: madam’s typewriter is sacred. i’ll just admire it from afar from now on… maybe.