My, Secret, Shame

I can’t use commas without consulting my trusty copy of Strunk & White.

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Why is this shameful? I majored in English. My mother was an English teacher. In fact, I’m pretty sure she can read my thoughts as I write this and is dying a little inside.

Hi, Mom!

Unfortunately, I do not know where my copy of Strunk & White is. In a box? On the moon? In an alternate universe where I’m a highly lucrative and successful writer? Who knows.

What I do know is that this means that every blog post I’ve written so far has been peppered with punctuation, the rules of which are of my own making and recollection. Because apparently googling “how to use commas” is not part of my internet skills set.

And one of these days, some one will point out my copious and ridiculous use of commas. And then I’ll die of shame.

The end.