laugardagur, júní 17, 2006
brachet
A day spent sniffing out your own typographical errors. This is hard work on a hot day. The sun beats down on the page and then up at your eyes, or else you play hide and seek, moving from table to table in the café to stay ahead of the blinding beams. It shouldn't be a long hunt; the text is a short one. Unfortunately, it was written in haste, in the growing shadow of a much longer, weightier text. It shows. The worst part is that the hot, hot sun is cooking all the garbage bins of all the cafés on the block, and the stench of putrifying tablescraps overpowers the delicate scent of a misplaced comma or the wrong sort of bracket.
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Sometimes I think I should have paid you to edit my thesis. But then it dawns on me that I don't think I could have taken the mortification from knowing that every bracket was wrong and that I egregiously misused commas and semi-colons and the run-ons would have driven you insane and it would've taken me the summer to fix it all and then we wouldn't have had such a nice time at my graduation, would we?
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