Howdy-do, writer person. Ducking typo here. Thanks for inviting me to again dominate your thoughts for the next little while. It’s always so nice to take your intended peace of mind and replace it with a piece of mine instead.
Hafta say, I really wasn’t sure we’d get a chance to catch up this week. You worked so dang hard on that perfect writing submission. You edited and spell checked and proofed. Then proofed again. All was good to go.
Until right after you hit send. In a bout of second-guessing, you went back to check on what you’d just submitted to your editor, in hopes of dazzling yourself with your now-finalized brilliance. You’d leave it on a high, you thought.
But there I was. Paragraph three. Second sentence. Hanging out. Ready to partly.
Except you didn’t want to partly. Not even partially.
I thought I’d give you a moment to calm down, and there was a chance of that. That is until you got to paragraph five, and I popped back up, all like, “hey their.”
Your sullen face told me all I needed to know. “There!” you screamed. I asked you to relax, since I was starting to feel as if I was something you’d erase from your life if you could. You just yelled at me for not being subjunctive. So rude!
This time I could tell you needed some space, so I gave you some. In paragraph six. But you didn’t want the space, saying something about how you wish I were a hyphen instead. My presents itself was starting to feel like a mistake.
By paragraph eight, I could tell you were seething, so I asked you, point blank, “Then where should I go to?” But you just yelled about how I was dangling a preposition. (Um, I think you meant proposition, bud, but no reason to split heirs.)
I still don’t know what peaked your interest in paragraph nine. But in paragraph ten, I do know you were very unhappy with the examples I laid out, even though I clearly – clearly! – labeled them “i.e.”
In the closing paragraph, I tried to give you a complement, but by that point you simply weren’t having it. You were all like, “i,” “i,” “i,” and even I know there’s no “i” in team.
I just don’t know what you want from me. When you said it was all good, I agreed that “Its all good!” When I asked you if you wanted to hang out less days, you just yelled “Fewer!” When my voice is too passive, you always tell me I should be more active. It’s loose, loose around here!
I feel like I’m so giving of my thyme, but all you ever do is point out my floss. If I’m the one whose to blame, then just tale me. Right me a letter; to who it may concern.
I’m truly sorry I make you (sic). I am. But if we’re being fair, I think it’s yourself you’re your really mad at. You were hasty. You rushed. I may be the one who puts myself out there, but you’re the one pushing the buttons.
But even though I’m again ruining your life for a few days, I know you can’t stay mad at me. Try as you might, I will return. I am a part of you, even when you wish I were apart.
Our relationship is one of simple cause and affect: Right after you hit submit, I’ll be there to falter, when you’d planned to go further. I’m just possessive, even when you want things to be plural. If I were to compare our relationship to something else, I’d make it incomplete. You and I are two birds in a pod.
So what do you say – same time next week? You bring the twelve hundred words that convey your intended meaning, and I’ll bring the twelve that overshadow everything? Maybe we can even order in some splices of comma? Get high on a few ambiguous modifiers? It’ll be a real partly.
Until then, I will lay in wait all week (and that’s no lie). But for now, writer person, I bid you ado.
