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was mad. I typed for hours on end until the keys clicked along rapidly with a steady, uninterrupted pace. Every keystroke felt more important than the previous one, especially if I could crank out a sentence as fast as I could read it. I didn't know what I was typing and I didn't care. I could have documented the entire feminist movement on three hard drives without gaining an ounce student of student respect for women.But my hard work paid off when Ms. Thomas, the crazy Jamaican teacher everyone hated, decided I was her best student student ever. But not only for typing ability. No no. Our 7th grade typing class (probably more advanced than yours), consisted of learning professional skills as well. We wrote sample cover letters, resumes, and thank-you notes, and we even had a mock interview for our fake job with a REAL employer at the end of the year. Apparently, I drafted a cover letter so great, it was still being used 3 years later when my sister went through the same class.And that brings me to my latest "nostalgic find," from some box my mom dug up under my old house: a computer print out of mine, complete with perforation marks around the edges (remember how you used to have to tear printer sheets apart) from October 25, 1993.
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