I'm going to get on my soapbox for a moment. I think I have the right to do so on my own blog, yes? Even though I would love to say this stuff to many, many people on social networking sites I happen to be a part of, I am much too nice (or just polite) to do so. Instead of saying it to their--well, profiles--I will say it to the world, because the world obviously needs it.
Stop flaunting your atrocious, incorrect grammar on the internet. There, I said it. I am nauseated to see, day after day, such irresponsible use of the English language. I understand not everyone can afford a college education, but if you would at least appropriate what you were taught in high school (as far as you made it in high school, anyway), we would all be able to get the general idea you are trying to relate. Posting that you are "g3ttin wurkkkkkk dunnnn" only assures me that you are either immature or an idiot. It's bad enough to see kids in middle school write like that (they should still know better), but it is absolutely revolting to see from someone of graduating age.
I don't care that you think you are a "thug", "cuteeee", or genius. You were forced to sit through hours of English for a reason; no matter how much you may have hated it, something had to have stuck with you. Typing in ALL CAPITALS, does not make you awesome, extreme, or unique--it just gives a headache to everyone who has to read your writing.
Speaking of "your", something that makes me inwardly cringe the most is the lack of grasp a good percentage of the population seems to have on the usage of this word, or the spelling it gets confused with. Over and over you are corrected by internet grammar Nazis, and still you continue your ridiculous behavior. I'm going to play that old and tired record, just to get things straight. "Your" is strictly a possessive term. One does not say "your uneducated"; this implies that "uneducated" belongs to you (however much that term applies to you, one cannot possess an adjective). The informed reader obviously expects a noun to follow, for example "your uneducated son, your uneducated possum", etc. If a noun is not given, the "sentence" is a train wreck. One also cannot say "you're computer". "You're" is a shortened version of "you are"; once expanded, the statement reads "you are computer". This may make sense to a caveman, but a reader would assume that the writer does not understand English well. "Your" should be used here, because it says that the computer belongs to you.
I have the same issue with the misuse of "there/their/they're" and "write/right" and many more homophones that most people confuse, but that last English lesson wore me out. If you are unfamiliar with the usage of these words, see a dictionary.
I am not so naive to think that heinous spelling on the internet will halt because I write a silly blog post. It does, however, make me feel better to write my irritation out. Some readers (if they are diligent) will realize that is where most of my posts stem from: emotions over certain topics. I'm not sure how normal people deal with these things, but I prefer to write them out.
Yes, I misspell things myself occasionally. To my horror, I've come across things I've written that have been posted on other websites in which I have spelled a word or two incorrectly (or used the wrong word). But whenever I write something, I tend to be very meticulous about my spelling and grammar. I run spell check several times and read over it plenty before I post. That is why I'm surprised when things are missed. It seems to happen more often when I write while I am tired (as is happening now) and I will constantly misspell silly things. I correct them when I catch them, but it desensitizes me to a lot of the errors. I just want the reader to know I am not preaching what I do not practice myself.
I was actually thinking about this post in bed last night, but was almost asleep and didn't want to get up to write it. It was a lot angrier and meaner than this one (and some of the points I thought about were so good, I may include them later if I think of them, mean or not). But name-calling does not a case make, however much certain bad spellers anger me. (I do find it entertaining that when internet trolls are losing an argument, they begin to correct the grammar of the one they are trolling. They usually win.) I'm glad I remembered the main points. (You should also know that a lot of the time when I'm writing blog posts, I think in a British accent. It helps me come up with sentences that sound more intelligent than the original basis of the idea.)
Enough revelations into my sleepy brain. This is your self-proclaimed grammar Nazi, getting off her soapbox. Gute Nacht!
Friday, August 24, 2012
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Another Guest Blog
Hey readers! I've written another guest article for the Unveiled Wife blog! If you've ever realized your talent but have been too timid, uncertain, or busy to train in it and start using it, you will find great encouragement in reading this. Never be ashamed of getting stuck in a rut, as long as you get up and put some effort into getting OUT!
Click this lovely link to read my article (and maybe while you're there, read some other posts and give Unveiled Wife some love!):
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
My Scars Tell Me I Must Have Been Exciting
Since I end up regaling interested parties with stories of my scars, I thought I would put all those stories in one place.
I'll start with the ones on my face. There's one above my left eyebrow from an accident when I was five. My older brother was cutting off strings left on my sister's bike from a makeshift basket they made with an empty Kudos box. I was sitting behind him on my own bike, patiently waiting until he was done so I could follow him out of the shed. My brother, either unaware of my presence entirely or my proximity to him, made a grand gesture of sweeping the scissors behind his head to attack the very last string. (By the way, these were not safety scissors or child appropriate ones. My brother had snagged the large, adult sewing ones when my mother wasn't looking.) During the journey to the handlebar, the scissors sliced above my eye, leaving me howling. I don't remember much after that except lying on a table in the doctor's office waiting to be stitched up. My mom later told me that I fought so hard, I bent the stitching needle and they had to call in two nurses to hold me down. I don't even remember the pain.
The other one on my face is also near my left eye, also caused by my older brother. I was six and wearing glasses at the time to correct my farsightedness. We were laying on the backyard swings on our stomachs, winding up the chains, then letting go so we would spin very quickly (I'm sure everyone has done this at some point in their childhood). Somehow our trajectories were unstable, and my brother ended up whacking his head into my glasses. I was cut a half inch from my eye. It bled quite a bit, but this one didn't require stitches, only a butterfly bandage. Doctors have told me if it was half an inch further to the right, I would have lost my eye.
There is a scar on my right arm that happened when I was thirteen. I slipped off a ladder and scraped my arm on a wooden fence. It's hardly there anymore but I can still feel it.
An inch long scar on my left ring finger also has to do with my older brother. I was using his skateboard to roll down our hill when I was eleven. I wasn't brave enough to stand, so I laid on my stomach. Not being sure what to do with my hands, I held them just above the ground. The left one slipped under the front wheel, which pinched a piece of skin from my finger.
I have multiple scars on my knees from playing tomboy and falling out of trees every summer. But the largest one (on my right knee) didn't happen from summer, or from falling out of a tree. During my first three years of education, I attended a private school with my elder siblings. It was built on a steep hill and the sidewalk from the entrance to the parking lot was steep as well. Students were told not to run down it all the time. One day, our ride had been waiting a long time for us and our mother's friend was getting antsy. We knew we needed to hurry up but having shorter legs than my siblings, I was still slower. So I allowed the grade of the hill to push me into a jog and before I knew it, I was flat on my face. Upon sitting up, I noticed a giant hole in my uniform-issued tights and blood flowing out of my knee. It didn't hurt at all until I saw that blood. My mom's friend had to carry me to the car. It wasn't a little skin. Everyone who observed it at the time called it a "hole". And it still overrides any other scars that would try to cover it.
Writing about all this, it would seem that I hurt myself on my left side the most. I don't do it on purpose; that side must just be more inclined to pain.
I do have a lot of other little scars on random body parts, but those are all from chicken pox. And even though it isn't a scar, I feel this post would be incomplete without mentioning my birthmark. It's about the size of an adult fist, squarish in shape, and sits on my right thigh directly above my knee. It was much darker when I was younger. I barely notice it's there anymore (except when my leg tans, which is rare). I used to think it looked like a country and would trace it over and over. For a long time, it was a source of insecurity for me. But it's just pigment. It doesn't say anything about me or who I am; it's just a part of a body that I won't have forever. I'm not going to let something so silly define me. Anyways, I usually forget about it unless I'm looking right at it.
There is your multitude of information about me for the day. I do hope you enjoyed yourself.
I'll start with the ones on my face. There's one above my left eyebrow from an accident when I was five. My older brother was cutting off strings left on my sister's bike from a makeshift basket they made with an empty Kudos box. I was sitting behind him on my own bike, patiently waiting until he was done so I could follow him out of the shed. My brother, either unaware of my presence entirely or my proximity to him, made a grand gesture of sweeping the scissors behind his head to attack the very last string. (By the way, these were not safety scissors or child appropriate ones. My brother had snagged the large, adult sewing ones when my mother wasn't looking.) During the journey to the handlebar, the scissors sliced above my eye, leaving me howling. I don't remember much after that except lying on a table in the doctor's office waiting to be stitched up. My mom later told me that I fought so hard, I bent the stitching needle and they had to call in two nurses to hold me down. I don't even remember the pain.
The other one on my face is also near my left eye, also caused by my older brother. I was six and wearing glasses at the time to correct my farsightedness. We were laying on the backyard swings on our stomachs, winding up the chains, then letting go so we would spin very quickly (I'm sure everyone has done this at some point in their childhood). Somehow our trajectories were unstable, and my brother ended up whacking his head into my glasses. I was cut a half inch from my eye. It bled quite a bit, but this one didn't require stitches, only a butterfly bandage. Doctors have told me if it was half an inch further to the right, I would have lost my eye.
There is a scar on my right arm that happened when I was thirteen. I slipped off a ladder and scraped my arm on a wooden fence. It's hardly there anymore but I can still feel it.
An inch long scar on my left ring finger also has to do with my older brother. I was using his skateboard to roll down our hill when I was eleven. I wasn't brave enough to stand, so I laid on my stomach. Not being sure what to do with my hands, I held them just above the ground. The left one slipped under the front wheel, which pinched a piece of skin from my finger.
I have multiple scars on my knees from playing tomboy and falling out of trees every summer. But the largest one (on my right knee) didn't happen from summer, or from falling out of a tree. During my first three years of education, I attended a private school with my elder siblings. It was built on a steep hill and the sidewalk from the entrance to the parking lot was steep as well. Students were told not to run down it all the time. One day, our ride had been waiting a long time for us and our mother's friend was getting antsy. We knew we needed to hurry up but having shorter legs than my siblings, I was still slower. So I allowed the grade of the hill to push me into a jog and before I knew it, I was flat on my face. Upon sitting up, I noticed a giant hole in my uniform-issued tights and blood flowing out of my knee. It didn't hurt at all until I saw that blood. My mom's friend had to carry me to the car. It wasn't a little skin. Everyone who observed it at the time called it a "hole". And it still overrides any other scars that would try to cover it.
Writing about all this, it would seem that I hurt myself on my left side the most. I don't do it on purpose; that side must just be more inclined to pain.
I do have a lot of other little scars on random body parts, but those are all from chicken pox. And even though it isn't a scar, I feel this post would be incomplete without mentioning my birthmark. It's about the size of an adult fist, squarish in shape, and sits on my right thigh directly above my knee. It was much darker when I was younger. I barely notice it's there anymore (except when my leg tans, which is rare). I used to think it looked like a country and would trace it over and over. For a long time, it was a source of insecurity for me. But it's just pigment. It doesn't say anything about me or who I am; it's just a part of a body that I won't have forever. I'm not going to let something so silly define me. Anyways, I usually forget about it unless I'm looking right at it.
There is your multitude of information about me for the day. I do hope you enjoyed yourself.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
A Prodigal Returns
Picked up my bass for the first time in a long while today (for those who don't know, I play the electric bass). I've gotten "the itch" to play a few times since I've moved, but not enough to keep my callouses. That's pretty sad when I think about it. It will be six years in November since I started teaching myself to play and I've been pretty obsessed with it since then. A year or so after that, with some tutoring from my dad, I started to play on our church worship team. I played with them for three and a half years, which feels like forever. There are some amazing musicians and vocalists on that team, some of whom I became close enough with to call family. It takes a lot of work to be able to play with other people three times a week, and have it flow cleanly and smoothly. Definitely requires some good chemistry. In that kind of atmosphere, you have to get along with everybody; if you don't, it will be obvious in the quality of the music.
And I was really blessed to be able to have my family on the team. My dad plays guitar currently, but he's also amazing on bass, piano, and trumpet. One of very few on the team who could claim an education in music theory and everybody knew it.Whenever anyone had a musical question (whether it was about the key or the notes we were playing), it was almost always directed to him. I probably wouldn't have done well on the team if not for him. If I was confused during a rehearsal, all I had to to was walk across the stage to him and ask for his help. He always steered me right. It was also nice to have my brother and sister on the team. We played together more at the youth center (as we were the ones who had gotten the team started back up and made up the core of the team), but my sister played guitar with the main team for a few years and my brother jumped on drums from time to time. When it comes to music, it's definitely a family affair.
Having people see me on stage every weekend for years made me somewhat of a celebrity within the church, although I never accepted the role. People would tell me what I good job I did or how nice it was to see me up there. A lot of people would let that fluff up their ego, but I've never been very good at being popular. What was important to me was that lives were being changed as a result of allowing myself to be used by God. That's the only reason I got up there every week. It sounds like false humility, but that's the truth. If I stood on that stage and thought about how many people were watching me, I'd probably freeze up and pee my pants. I wouldn't be any good to anybody. And in past history with the team, if the pastor or the worship team leader saw any rock stars on the stage, they would ask them to step down from the ministry. So if you had any pride or the need to strut your stuff, you'd better get rid of it quick, because that wasn't the point of the team. It was to reach people, to get them into open their hearts to God's presence so He could work.
I say all that to say I was drowned by waves of emotion after listening to songs I used to play with that team. I had seen God do so much and felt His presence so strongly during that time. I have to admit, I'm not as close with Him since moving here. Being apart from my church family is pretty rough and I felt like I was betraying them when I went to the church we found here (it just isn't the same and feels foreign). I think putting the bass down was also part of that drift, because that's one of the ways I get in His presence. Sometimes it isn't enough for me to sing the words; I have to play how I feel, express my love through the music. And while my fingers hurt really bad from my lack of callouses to protect them, my heart feels lighter than it has in a long time. I feel reconnected with not only my talent, but also the One who gave it to me. And that is the purpose of it all, isn't it?
And I was really blessed to be able to have my family on the team. My dad plays guitar currently, but he's also amazing on bass, piano, and trumpet. One of very few on the team who could claim an education in music theory and everybody knew it.Whenever anyone had a musical question (whether it was about the key or the notes we were playing), it was almost always directed to him. I probably wouldn't have done well on the team if not for him. If I was confused during a rehearsal, all I had to to was walk across the stage to him and ask for his help. He always steered me right. It was also nice to have my brother and sister on the team. We played together more at the youth center (as we were the ones who had gotten the team started back up and made up the core of the team), but my sister played guitar with the main team for a few years and my brother jumped on drums from time to time. When it comes to music, it's definitely a family affair.
Having people see me on stage every weekend for years made me somewhat of a celebrity within the church, although I never accepted the role. People would tell me what I good job I did or how nice it was to see me up there. A lot of people would let that fluff up their ego, but I've never been very good at being popular. What was important to me was that lives were being changed as a result of allowing myself to be used by God. That's the only reason I got up there every week. It sounds like false humility, but that's the truth. If I stood on that stage and thought about how many people were watching me, I'd probably freeze up and pee my pants. I wouldn't be any good to anybody. And in past history with the team, if the pastor or the worship team leader saw any rock stars on the stage, they would ask them to step down from the ministry. So if you had any pride or the need to strut your stuff, you'd better get rid of it quick, because that wasn't the point of the team. It was to reach people, to get them into open their hearts to God's presence so He could work.
I say all that to say I was drowned by waves of emotion after listening to songs I used to play with that team. I had seen God do so much and felt His presence so strongly during that time. I have to admit, I'm not as close with Him since moving here. Being apart from my church family is pretty rough and I felt like I was betraying them when I went to the church we found here (it just isn't the same and feels foreign). I think putting the bass down was also part of that drift, because that's one of the ways I get in His presence. Sometimes it isn't enough for me to sing the words; I have to play how I feel, express my love through the music. And while my fingers hurt really bad from my lack of callouses to protect them, my heart feels lighter than it has in a long time. I feel reconnected with not only my talent, but also the One who gave it to me. And that is the purpose of it all, isn't it?
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