A Writer’s Lament

Mistakes were made. Nothing is perfect. You can try and try and try and it’ll always have a dent in it. Small bumps along the way. Little details forgotten. Leading to a catastrophe. You think you got it right. You comb through it a million times. Where did I go wrong? There’s no soothing the human ego.

She pointed out these typos. Smiled while she was doing it. As if she took some kind of pleasure in it. He had no choice, but, to sit back and take it. Each correction placed a dagger in his heart. He didn’t scream, or, say anything. Bit his lip. He would never have anything perfect. Quality control was lacking.

In bed at night there was no sleep for him. Thinking of the too instead of to. Of they’re as opposed to their. Your, not you’re. These were the things that kept him awake at night while soundly she slept. He’d look over at her. He wanted to blame her for these mistakes. But, he knew he was solely responsible. Should have spent the money on a whore instead of masturbating. Going at these things alone are never best. You need a set of a hundred eyes reading it over and over and over again. The price of perfection is never ending.

On the breakfast table the book sat there. Alone. The cover looked nice. But, inside he knew it was filled with sins; mistakes. These are the things that kill us.

It’s barely noticeable, she said. Half of America won’t catch it. The other half will be unserstanding.

No, he thought. No. That’s the thing about people. They’re always looking for a reason to tear you apart. And yes. I am my own worst enemy.

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