I live inside of your computer. Autocorrect bends to my very will. That sentence you slaved over, the one you re-read twenty times, the one you edited twenty times until it was perfect–I changed the spelling of one of the words. The spell check didn’t catch it.
I am the Typo Imp! Your one and only, driving you insane during the early hours of the morning down till the late hours of the night! No amount of coffee will make it stop. Nothing you do will make me leave: not a hard reset, nothing. Don’t take my word for it though. Go ahead, go and take your computer in. Pay the man’s wages.
I’m a benefactor.
Of my amusement.
That essay you wrote, the one with the clever title? It just got a little scandalous! Can you imagine how boring your existence would be without me? You can at least say (without a doubt) that someone does pay attention to you. The fact that I am neither friend nor family is another matter.
(I have some friends who’d be willing to fix that . . . For themselves. I wouldn’t recommend them. They just wanted me to let you know that they’re around; they say you watch fun movies!)
The Typical Imp.
P.S: Did you catch that? If yes, it’s only because I wanted you to . . .