The Rosemary Box coughed up a number of sheets of paper
with printing on them, done on a word processor, not a typewriter.
The sheets of paper contained a commentary on injustice in the work place, specifically my workplace, and specifically the hell that I was experiencing just trying to get through each damned day. I had written the commentary in vers libre, a la Don Marquis.
What was that, fifteen years ago? Well, okay, maybe fourteen. The point that was driven home to me was not that fourteen or fifteen years ago life sucked, but that in those days, there was no blog to report the incessant abuse by a psychotic and indefatigable co-worker. How secret life was! The nature of my job meant that I could not in good conscience blab to all and sundry in the community what an asshole was viciously and maliciously undermining my position on a daily basis, lying about me to our boss and our associates. There was no one to tell, no venue for venting. Except the secret-keeping white paper that printed out of my StarWriter. Those black and white letters detailed a desperate heart, a disillusioned heart, a heart that would have longed deeply had it known that not so many years in the future, it could have blogged daily about the hateful sabotages and deceptions.
I tell you, I'm tempted to divulge, lo, these many years later. At length. But maybe I'd be better off writing a book, with a very thinly veiled antagonist ...