I heart Chelsea Summers. Her blog has always been one of the most literate web sites to deal with sex in the whole blogosphere, and she has just enough misanthropy that she has long since secured herself a place in the black, shriveled lump of muscle that is my heart. But she’s outdone herself with her two most recent entries. She’s started writing about one of the kinks that rules all my other kinks: Grammar.1
Stupid people don’t interest me, sexually or otherwise, and yes, just because you make grammatical or spelling mistakes doesn’t make you stupid. But you come off as a lot smarter if you can at least make a fucking effort, and let’s face it — you give some people a computer keyboard, and they just don’t seem to give a shit what comes out on the screen. Much as I love the Internet and all the geeky toys and perverted communities it makes available to me, it’s also an excruciating experience reading a lot of Internet prose, which is apparently written by people who surrendered all responsibility for correct language and style to a third-rate spellchecking program before they sent that part of their brain out to the dry cleaner’s and then promptly dropped the claim check behind the couch where it lay mouldering for eight months before being picked up by a rat to use as home improvement materials.