Microsoft Word. Light of my mind, fire of my frustration. My sin, my soul. Mi-cro-soft-word. The mouth contorts with anti-poetry. My. Crow. Soft. Word.

Oh, Word. For 20 years, you have supported and tyrannized me. You have given me a skimpy Etch A Sketch on which to compose, a cramped spot on the sentence-assembly line -- and then harangued me with orders to save or reformat as you stall and splutter and assert points of ludicrous corporate chauvinism ("Invalid product key"! "Unrecognized database format"!).

And just when I need to be alone with my thoughts and my Mac, you detain me...

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