There is no cure
I am forever destined to stumble over a misspelled word or walk about with a pocket full of leftover punctuation. I do not know if there is a term for my affliction, I just know it is acute and persistent.
Things I have scribbled years ago flourish with mistakes that remained hidden back in the day, but for some reason seem to step into the spotlight at the present time.
I expect it will be my undoing. I shall be annoyed to death while sitting here at my desk reading an old post somewhere on this blog. I will come across some glaring tense issue, and it will put me over the edge.
You’ve seen them, I know you have. They are like weeds, popping up here and there, now and then. I imagine Shakespeare struggled with something, the language being so highfalutin back then, with no spell-check or even white-out. What a nightmare. I bet that before he changed it to Much ado about nothing, he wrote, What’s all the fuss?
I could, of course, start a Go Fund Me page,
but throwing money at the issue wouldn’t accomplish much, and clinical research
would only add lab coats to laundry day.
Like I say, there isn’t a cure. Until
I reach that final period, I will walk along the margins, scanning sentences and
paragraphs for booboos. That’s all I can
do.
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