They’ll Be the Death of Me Yet

Typos. Dirty, stinking, rotten typos.

I hate them with a passion, but they seem to crop into my writing with no regard for my personal feelings toward them. This wouldn’t be so bad if I weren’t such a… well… stuck up spelling Nazi.

There, I said it. Feel free to glare at me derisively. I hate misspelled words. I hate non-deliberate grammar errors. Obviously, I don’t mind sentence fragments, but things like subject-verb agreement are non-negotiable. Spend any amount of time with me, either in person or online, and eventually, I’ll end up correcting you. I don’t do it to be mean or to belittle anyone – it’s just a sharing of information. Because, really, I’d rather know, if it were me. (And trust me, I’m correcting myself at a rate of about 4 corrections per second. I’m ALWAYS making a mess of things.)

Of course, I was excited when I learned how to tell when I should use whom. And I subscribe to the GrammarGirl podcast. Sometimes, I even read grammar books for fun, in my spare time.

So okay, maybe I’m not normal. And maybe no one else does want to know. But, I do. Case in point: Typos.

Dirty, stinking, rotten typos.

As hard as I try to guard against them, they infiltrate my posts, my papers, and my e-mails with relative ease. Just ten minutes ago, I located one in a previous post. And I cringed. Because see, I know the truth. Every time I make a typo, someone’s heart fills with joy. Particularly if that someone is someone I have corrected in the past.

Which means that EVERY time I make a typo, someone’s heart fills with joy. So maybe, I should endeavor to make more of them. It could be part of my community service. It could be outreach. I could bring joy to millions!

I really have to do something about the darn things, after all. If I don’t use them to bring about world peace, they might just be the death of me.

*Bobs

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