Typos

Originally posted on March 10, 2011 at 4:05 PM

For a perfectionist like me, the internet is an imperfect thing, seeing as it allows me to be less than perfect.

Not only does it not correct my mistakes as I go, like my dear friend Spell Check, it immortalizes my errors and typos in some alternate universe of permanency, forever to be viewed by mortal eyes, no matter how many times I jab the backspace button or frantically re-click “delete” on old posts. They are still there, hiding around the corner of some tightly woven cable, ready to pop up when someone Googles just the right phrase.

My careless skip of a “g” in a verb is floating in cyberspace, taunting me, crouching until just the right time. And my hasty spelling of “grammar,” or god forbid the your/you’re debacle – that one time I slipped up. They all lie in wait, hackles raised, teeth bared, angry that I created them and left them there to die. Their only revenge? Reveal themselves at just the right (wrong) time.

One day, someone will Stumble Upon a key mistake and seek me out, accuse me of lying, confront me. They’ll post banners on my house that say “NOT AN ENGLISH MAJOR!” A mob will form. Eggs will be thrown. Someone will create a dangerous virus and release it in my back yard, trying to flush me out, but it will mutate and evolve more quickly than anyone could have known. Grammar Nazis will become zombies of punctuation-rage. They will pound on my windows, rip down my bricks, reach under my door, moaning, “YOU LEFT OUT A COMMA!”

Meanwhile, I will be at my computer, dry eyes staring straight ahead, Dr. Pepper like an automatic extension of my free hand, trembling as I type, trying to put things to rights. I will let my mouse scurry all over the screen, searching for scraps – hunting for little bits of imperfection to annihilate. But the mouse and I both know it is too late. Some mistakes cannot be undone. Some mistakes have already been seen by thousands of eyes, and our reputation will never be whole again.

Finally I will break down, fling open the door, run into the horde, and scream, “Okay, okay! Take back the diploma! Rid me of these shameful tragedies!” I will hold out my shaking hands, wretched, with a sob on my lips and defeat in my lashes, and then I will be consumed.

You got me, interwebs. I have made typos. I am unworthy.