I would like to think that, if I focus on it, I can be quite proficient in the spelling and grammar used in my writing. I don’t think people like grammar nazis that much. If they do, they gave them a twisted title of endearment. When it comes down to it, I might be a bit of a grammar nazi, even if it’s just in my own head. I recently remembered a traumatic experience that may have set me on my path as a strict language critic.
Like many of my blog-worthy stories, romance returns as a driving factor. Let me set the scene:
Grade 9. Climbing the hill to manhood. Ready for some real romance. Enough hugging and hand holding. Grade 10 girl thinks I’m cute? I’ll poke her. On facebook. Like a real man… Right? That’s all I really had — Erica took it from there. She messaged me saying that I had to take her on a date. I was all hers at that point. An older woman with confidence and experience was all I needed to make foolish decisions. It turns out that “experience” was with my friend just days after our first date. It was too late, I was already foolish. We stayed together for a couple months at that time, she taught me a lot. High school was going to be a complicated place. When she broke it off with me she was pretty straight forward about it. I appreciated that. Still, I was a little heart-fractured. Where did I turn? Where it all started. Facebook.
One dramatic expression to encompass my feelings. One post. One word:
A couple hours later, I had a message in the chatroom. Erica. Returning for my affection after seeing what she’d done to me no doubt.
“It’s spelt ‘damn’.”
I deleted the post. I have never misspelt the word since. Probably.
B.F. Greeno, aka,
The Dang Dumpee