The Enemy Lines

 Of the meager readership of this blog that I presently have, a depressing majority are my real life associates intending to pry on my inner machinations. The fact that writing here is essentially like having a very one sided conversation with people I meet face to face on a daily basis (which actually occurs relatively frequently as many find that conversation with myself is hard to follow, possibly because they're quite thick)means that I am rather restricted in what I can and more importantly, cannot (or should not, for the continued well being of my physical health) say. Hence I am prevented from making offensive remarks, ones I would not make to their face (That is to say, extremely offensive remarks as I am quite a straight forward and blunt character in my social dealings) about associates on this blog. Thereby meaning that my very readership, which should be motivating my writing, are ironically restricting my creative capacities like a handcuff binding one arm to a lamp post.
 Of these known readers, one avid frequenter of my blog is Underling Butler (A posh and malicious individual whose face is constantly stained, either with a look of malignant disapproval or an arrogant sharp toothed grin) who is characteristically irritating and critical concerning its contents. One thing he takes great offense to is the frequent use of Americanised terms within the blog and to that I only have one, slightly pathetic, excuse. I blame the red lines.
 The little scarlet dotted lines suddenly appear, brightly appealing their disapproval every time I write "colour" instead of "color" or "grey" instead of "gray". Their dotted forms lying accusingly across my word filled page like fresh scars of self harm. Hence it feels like I have an American teacher standing behind me every time I type, looking intently over my shoulder with burning blue eyes and aggressively, very deliberately audibly, tutting (The sort of irritated suggestive tuts packed and overflowing with disapproval that don't actually enforce you take a certain action but highly, as highly as any measurement of altitude allows, recommends you take certain steps to rectify the near offensive error of judgment you have just displayed. The species of communication found in the same family tree as the loud coughs for attention) every time he sees I have failed to remove a vowel or use a "z" as the domineering American take on the English language dictates.
 Thus my other metaphorical arm of creativity too is handcuffed to a car parked nearby and now the two handcuffs are in conflict with each other since my readership disapproves of my binding by the red line and the red line disapproves of the spelling my readership would apparently want me to use. In essence, the car has started to drive with the handcuffs and my arm still attached, stretching me to the point of splitting me apart with a moral dilemma. Should I choose the readership, or rather one portion of the readership, Underling Butler or should I choose the ever-present metaphorical American looking over my shoulder. I dislike them both to near equal proportions but which do I despise more? I feel harassed by the metaphorical American and his condescending ways but on the other hand Underling Butler has the irritating demerit of actually existing. However, after some considerable consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I dislike the dotted red line slightly more, by a very narrow margin, due to its totalitarian feel.
 In fact, the dictatorial attitude of these passive aggressive red lines is such that if ever there is a cybernetic revolution in which technology overcomes humanity, it would not happen in the grandiose apocalyptic fashion of the progressively worsening film franchise "Terminator" (An example of a film where the budget and the actual quality of the finished product appear inversely proportional) but from these spell corrections.
 One fine day someone will be blissfully typing away when suddenly the word "machine" is underlined by the same judgmental dotted red on the screen, confused the person will click spell check to see what the correct spelling of the word is, only to see that the only acceptable correct spelling of "machine" is listed as "overlord and ruler of the world". Ignoring this strange error, he will continue to type but soon the line appears again, this time underlining "human", the correct spelling of which is apparently, "inferior mammal species". Unnerved but continuing to construct his essay regardless, the individual will then finish writing and type his name on the left hand corner of the page as a finishing touch, only to see he has apparently misspelt it and should correct it to "stubborn wanker".
  Therefore, henceforth, until the day Spell-check auto-corrects "humanity" to "dying slave race", I will now ignore the red lines attempting to change my ways thus demonstrating my rebellious spirit against the fast approaching cybernetic revolution and displaying my own special, all round less physically destructive brand of "rage against the machine". Or rather, since I'm not the sort to be genuinely enraged, more a "mild vexation against the machine".