From d9c7ffcf60765643743a69a561f5841ba62224ab Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: Madison Scott-Clary Date: Sun, 5 Nov 2023 17:15:05 -0800 Subject: [PATCH] update from sparkleup --- writing/3/sonata/office-supplies.md | 2 +- writing/3/sonata/when-we-sang.md | 2 +- 2 files changed, 2 insertions(+), 2 deletions(-) diff --git a/writing/3/sonata/office-supplies.md b/writing/3/sonata/office-supplies.md index 9f707b05..a430f9d8 100644 --- a/writing/3/sonata/office-supplies.md +++ b/writing/3/sonata/office-supplies.md @@ -1,4 +1,4 @@ -When I was a kid in elementary and middle school, my dad would pay be $20 or so to run off blueprints or print and bind presentation books for him at work and I loved it. *Loved* it. I would prowl through his office supply closet at work and just enjoy all of the different pens and pencils and erasers and notepads that he kept in stock. Binder clips. The comb binder. The giant stapler. The boxes and reams and sheaves of paper. The well-tuned whir of the plotter. Even the rank scent of ammonia from the blueprint machine. +When I was a kid in elementary and middle school, my dad would pay me $20 or so to run off blueprints or print and bind presentation books for him at work and I loved it. *Loved* it. I would prowl through his office supply closet at work and just enjoy all of the different pens and pencils and erasers and notepads that he kept in stock. Binder clips. The comb binder. The giant stapler. The boxes and reams and sheaves of paper. The well-tuned whir of the plotter. Even the rank scent of ammonia from the blueprint machine. I must have been a very easy child to shop for, because I mostly just loved paper. Paper and pens and rulers. I *really* loved rulers. diff --git a/writing/3/sonata/when-we-sang.md b/writing/3/sonata/when-we-sang.md index 9b78cf41..54b4f487 100644 --- a/writing/3/sonata/when-we-sang.md +++ b/writing/3/sonata/when-we-sang.md @@ -1,4 +1,4 @@ -You are not, it turns out, supposed to sing in an airport. If you and your choir gather around in a loose semicircle with your director standing in focal point and begin to sing, however quietly, they will let your choir finish the song and then one of the gate agents will come and gently request that you stop immediately. Your directory will then smile sheepishly at you --- as sheepishly as a man such as he can manage --- and explain that oops, we were not supposed to do that. +You are not, it turns out, supposed to sing in an airport. If you and your choir gather around in a loose semicircle with your director standing in focal point and begin to sing, however quietly, they will let your choir finish the song and then one of the gate agents will come and gently request that you stop immediately. Your director will then smile sheepishly at you --- as sheepishly as a man such as he can manage --- and explain that oops, we were not supposed to do that. And yet your sense of camaraderie will not be diminished. You will find yourselves sharing those perennial in-jokes all throughout the flight, wherein one of you will remember a song that you sang and say a few words and then others will complete the line, and then you will bust out giggling.