Typewriter love
February 4, 2002wandering through the aisles of blown colored glass and faded wood stains and fabrics that hadn’t seen the light of day, i spotted the dusty typewriter in the corner. i had to have it.
“thirty five dollars,” the man said. i was armed with cash and ready to whip it out, but my dad whispered in hushed tagalog to ask for twenty.
he gave it to me for twenty-five and made me the happiest girl alive.
the corona typewriter is from the ’40s but functions perfectly and comes in a travel case. i carted it around with me the rest of the morning, stuck in a dream-like state, imagining journalists and writers and students fashioning tales and weaving stories with its keys.
I'm Christine, and this is a slice of my life—a sweet, rich, wildly indulgent slice that would taste really good with a scoop of Breyers vanilla bean ice cream. Read more >>
I run a darling, friendly, little graphic design studio.
I look on the bright side.
I take photos. Lots of photos.
I wish on stars and on websites.
I built my first web site 7 years ago and got 15 seconds of fame. (It changed my life.)
I launched, then relaunched, an online magazine.
I admitted to several embarrassing crushes.
I consumed more bacon than any human should and lived to tell the tales.
