I consider myself to be rather adept at this thing we call the English language. I also think that my vocabulary suits my needs in different social situations – at least, most of the time.
Back in my mental prime, in the days of untainted talent and innocence, I adored writing. I loved putting pen to paper – not finger to keyboard – and writing stories. My strongest subjects were English, English Literature and Religious Studies – Not known as the least wordy subjects – and I thrived in them. I absolutely loved writing. Deconstructing language to find meaning in the most obscure place and taking apart each sentence to find a meaning that maybe other people couldn’t. (Note: I was young, so I discovered everything. In my mind)
Now? Now fuck it. I’m 95% sure my language has dropped to the levels even them commoners can comprehend (Though I’d like to thank a friend for constantly calling me posh, cow) and I slowly, day by day, find myself caring less and less about what I write in situations which don’t call for ‘my levels of epicness’ in terms of writing, grammar, punctuation, english, dinosaurs, hard narcotics and sentence structure.
A few years ago this would have annoyed me and I’d have gone through every single blog post and spell checked, language checked, structure check and generally be as anally retentive as possible. Now? Not so much. I mean, it’s very unlikely that you’re going to find a typo (Apart from the mixture of S and Z) in many things I write, but that’s because I know how to spell (THANK YOU GOOGLE SPELL CHECK <3) and I’m not a dick.
I can’t remember the point of this blog now.