Typographical Errors

I hated typos, mistakes, misspellings -
blatant ones that rest on
important pieces of paper
that seem to scream
"I’m too stupid to know proper English," or
"This wasn’t important enough for me to proof."
In which case, why should I make it important,
why should this mean anything to me?
I hated those who weren’t linguists.
they didn’t have the gift of language,
weren’t well read,
couldn’t spell a word they’d only seen once.
Oh, those linear thinkers,
logical bastards
who misspelled the word “angel” in 4
different ways.
They never took it as an art form -
the ability to articulate one’s self.
I hated those thoughts,
the bigot in me, the elitist so free,
truly believing she’s better.
But the worst yet,
I hated
the unrelated thoughts
that swirled and consumed me
separate from
grammatical errors.
Maybe being trivial,
maybe finding errors
helps me drown out the other thoughts.

I hated being myself.
I hated my past.
I hated hating myself.
I hate hating my past.
I hate typos.
I love hating typos.


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