I’ve been feeling for some time that I’m holding myself together with bits of string and tape, that my life is just waiting for a mild breeze with particularly inopportune timing and aim to blow it gently to bits.
If I needed confirmation of this, each of the last two blog posts I’ve made has contained a typo. For someone whose AP English teacher called him a grammar Nazi, this is particularly distressing.
I’ve rectified the situation and am thankful to the person who brought the one I hadn’t noticed to my attention, but, still, it leaves me quite concerned. I mean, if I mistype a letter today and my hypervigilant linguistic superego doesn’t notice, can I be that far from running around naked on an island with a conch shell, shrieking “Kill the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”?