Dear Typo,

I hate you.

I hate you like a massive raindrop falling randomly onto my cigarette from an otherwise decently blue(ish) sky.

I hate you more than that.

I hate you like an unknown cut from a piece of glass – the ones you don’t feel until they’re open and you’re squirming all over the place because it’s just so gross.

I hate you more than that.

I hate you with the intensity of the fire of a thousand suns.

I hate you that much.

I hate you because you bring out the worst side of me – the crazy one that doesn’t feel even slightly okay regardless of whatever else is going on. I hate you because you make me feel uncontrollably neurotic. You make me feel like the world is ending and that joke my dad made about an asteroid falling on my head really just might come true.

But I don’t hate you because you exist. I hate you because your existence is my fault.

As much as I hate you (oh, I hate you so much), I also . . . appreciate you. You’ve made me realize that I’m too hard on myself. You’ve made me realize that I spend too much time sweating the small stuff. You’ve reinforced that I’m only human at a time when finally starting to accept that being human is . . . good. It’s good. I make mistakes, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.

And as much as I want to destroy your existence in the world, I know it would be better for me if I didn’t. People might not understand that. Hell, I’m not entirely sure that I completely understand it. But for some reason, I know you’re good for me. Because, while you may look like a mistake . . . are you really?

You’re good for me because no matter how badly I wanted to punch something or break Herald’s face (Come on, you know Herald – I’m clicking his keys all the time . . .), I did not do either of those things. And because I am still tempted to behave in such an irrational and completely unhealthy manner (Herald has brought only good things to my life, so why should I want to break his face? I can’t work without him), you will remain in existence. You’re still testing me, you see. Me letting you exist isn’t me letting you win. You’re letting me win by existing.

I know that striving for perfection is good, but I also know that it’s impossible. You’re a constant reminder of that – a little twinge in the back of my head (sometimes in the front). I could never be perfect. I might try, and trying is good. But failure is inevitable there and I need to accept that. The kicks in the brain that you’re giving me are good for me. So, while I may hate you, I accept you. Because in order to accept myself, I have to accept you. No matter how bad you are, you are good for me on the whole.

I can’t hate myself for not being perfect anymore, but I can still hate you a little bit instead.



PS) Remember who created you. She can squash you in an instant if she decides to. Just keep it in mind. 🙂

Why couldn’t you have AT LEAST been the same word?