A Day in the Life of my Laptop

So, dear readers, I was a part of a class that frequently gifted me with prompts and ample time to write. I was asked to write from an inanimate object's--the ultimate form of personification. Ah, English classes. 

So, here it is. A day in the life of my long-suffering, sweet, poor, wonderful (have you forgiven me yet?), laptop.

  

Dear Reader,

There’s one special girl in my life, and like most relationships where you know you need to leave and just can’t, she treats me like crap. 

She knocks me around, throws me in her backpack, jogs around, uses me up into the dead of night, and forgets my charger so I go into repeated emergency shut-downs. Not to mention she hammers on my keys like she’s trying to carve a stone fresco out of my plastic.

Sometimes she lets me sleep on her, but that’s more from passing out while surfacing my face for internships than actual affection. Plus she’s a messy sleeper, so she ends up throwing me off the bed somewhere around 3:00 in the morning, sleeping peacefully in her sheets while letting me crash face first onto her chair. 

She bought me a bed table to try and avoid that, but being who she is, she manages to knock us both off.

So why don’t I leave? Why don’t I just stand up, tell her I’m worth more than this, that I won’t take any more of her abuse, and walk out of her life forever?

Well, sometimes she treats me like gold. Holding me to her chest, clutching my sides with her soft hands. Sometimes, she’ll even encourage me when I’m having a rough time loading, or let me rest in her bed with her as she sleeps.

That, and I don’t have any legs. 

Honestly, I think my laptop's not being fair. I mean, I give it a home, and what does it want from me? Better treatment? Pssh!

So how about you guys? How do you think your laptop/iphone/table feels about you? 

Yeah, My Pants Fell Down

Hey guys! It's been a while, so I thought I'd apologize with a self-depreciating, and generally hilarious, story about how I lost my pants one night at a park. 

Ready? Set, go!

So, My Pants Fell Down      

My roommates and I were swinging on swings. I was wearing sweatpants which, as I’ve now learned, are extremely slippery and should not, under any circumstances, be worn out on adventurous activities. Ever.

Don't let the comfy fabric fool you. Sweatpants are secretly plotting your demise.

This is a very important lesson, guys. You want to know how I learned it? Well, my friend B decided to tickle me. My tickle-sense works differently than most, though, so instead of a giggle, I basically exploded, slipped off my swing, and apparently, so did my pants.

My roommates immediately busted out laughing. My butt was cold, so I reached around and pulled my pants back up, but the fact that my booty had been exposed didn’t quite compute yet. Luckily, B hadn’t realized what had happened either (thank you, dimly lit parks, I’ll never complain about you again). Then, when I realized I was sitting on my neck, and my pants were finally back up around my waist where they should be, I paused. I looked at the stars. Considered life for a split second. 

Then I roared with laughter.

B helped me up, sniggering awkwardly and with a slightly confused expression. I, still laughing, slugged him straight in the ribs. He took it like a champ.

You’re a good man, B. But if you ever tickle me again, you’ll be a good, dead man. 

I reserve this face for the worst offenses: tickling, and the misuse of "their" and "they're"

What’s today’s moral of the story?

Don’t where sweatpants to parks.

 EVER.

What's the most embarrassing story you have? Does it involve sweatpants, strange guy-friends, or parks? I sincerely hope not, for you sake.

Unless it's this guy in a dimly lit park. Then I just envy you. 

Agent 00Comma

              

  It occurs to me that English is possibly the devil of all languages. Yet, I am deeply, horribly, wonderfully in love with it. Does that make me a demon?

                I work as a writing tutor at my college. If you ignore the sounds of wailing and gnashing of teeth in the background, it’s a really fun place. There are nerds galore and people who actually know who Steinbeck and Khaled Hosseini are. One girl, who will remain nameless (Ester), even hosts Lord of the Ring parties. Needless to say, I’m among my people.

                In this place full of literature, MLA formatting, and wonder, I enjoy my life and my job and helping people improve their writing. Most people come out of our sessions happier than they came in, with that I’m-going-to-die expression wiped cleanly off their little college faces. Most of the time, people are grateful for my help. Most of the time, people are glad to hear my words of wisdom, for teaching them how to fix their writing issues.

                Sometimes, they aren't.

                Sometimes, they think I’m an editor, or a machine, because I’m an English Major. Sure, I have Super Comma Mistake Vision, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to go through and mark up every mistake you make. And no, before you try to point it out, that’s not my job. I’m not an Editing Tutor. I’m a Writing Tutor. I help you write better. As in, I’m not going to do the work for you.

                What’s that? You don’t want to revise your thesis because the paper is due in two hours?

                Then you should have come in earlier.

                You think your writing is perfect and you don’t see the need for an organization revision?

                Then why did your professor send you here?

                I’ll tell you why. Your content has problems. It’s not the commas—though they’re not flawless, to be sure (no one’s are)—it’s that you don’t give a crap about what you’re writing, and I can tell. I’m a Word Choice master. I’m picking up on the “screw you Professor What’s-your-name” context clues.

                Now, let’s try imbuing those context clues in the paper with a more positive message.  

  

                This is a call to respect Tutors, Teachers, and Professors everywhere! If I told you all the annoying stories I’ve collected in working with/teaching other students, I’d have you crying, laughing, and feeling guilty.

Hmm. Now there’s a thought.

                Agent 00Comma—Tales from the Grammar Front lines—on Thursdays, anyone?