Two Weeks on my Typewriter (And Beyond)

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'Twas a dark and stormy night. I'd taken a creative writing course. The methodic, constant spattering of water made me wish my window was closed. Still, rain is something you get used to, since Mark Twain was mostly right when he said that if you didn't like the weather in New England, just wait five minutes. Or maybe it was Mark Spitz. Anyways, while the past few years have been exceedingly humid and unnaturally warm (from what I'm accustomed to, growing up around here), New England does get its occaisional rainy periods. The weather can change a lot. Just like in the Heartlands. Or the Northwest. Or pretty much anywhere in the world, actually. I wasn't sure I wanted the weather to change. But one thing that did need to change was my so-called "outlook on life". But coming from the point of view of a woman who's never even come up with this "outlook" in the first place, it's just something that will have to wait. One of my professors liked to tell the class that, in general, women have their futures planned out for them more accurately than men do. That doesn't seem to say much for me, who doesn't even have a job. Days and gas money are spent as I traverse the city, dodging angrified traffic and navigating cramped, debilitated roads, seeking employment to fend off the collectors and while trying to juggle a question I thought would simply come naturally, of just who the heck I was. My answer used to be, of course, "Pazil Kverushka" (which is my name, Paz for short, for those playing along at home). Now the same old story unravels, like a bow on a box. Only I didn't realize that what was to be of my life wasn't something I was to go out and seek. Instead, that something would come to me, like a package delivered. I opened that package, not expecting a parcel in the mail. "What the heck is this crap?" I asked as I peered inside. What I found was...