Typos, misspellings, and grammatical errors are far from unheard of for me. Sometimes I intentionally write run-on sentences because I don’t care and I like to think it gives a stream of consciousness feel to my work and it’s my blog and I can do whatever TF I like. Writing and posting daily, though, has either significantly decreased my quality of editing or simply pointed out it was never all that hot to begin with. Pretty much any time I go back and read something, I find at least one, and oftentimes many, mistakes. Increased output, increased errors. I suppose it makes sense.
Yesterday, though, y’all.
I hosed the title. The part with the big letters.
I wrote Liberalization Bastardization. I meant to write Liberation Bastardization. And I knew at the time something wasn’t quite right, but I couldn’t figure out what was off.
I didn’t figure it out until today. My shame knows no bounds. Sometimes I can attribute my mistakes to trying to throw something together too quickly, or the wine I’m partaking of while writing, or the constant hustle and bustle of our new reality of all being home all the damn time. This time though, I don’t even know what to say. There is really no option other than for me to acknowledge, and perhaps embrace the fact that I am losing my damn mind. And I was probably never quite as damn clever as I thought.
I’ve also struggled mightily of late with being able to tell when to take things out of the oven. Things that should be easy peasy and I’ve never had issue with before, like refrigerated canned cinnamon rolls or pizza. We’re experiencing a very doughy pandemic in our house and it’s pissing me off. Because this is one thing I should be able to do well at and have control over.
The gray matter is definitely feeling compromised. Sanity is waning. But we are all healthy.
So now I’m going to make make enchiladas. They’ll probably be doughy. I’ll report back on them tomorrow, along with any headline typos.
Be Well, Friends.