How do you feel about Mr. Oxford Comma?

 

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Our Dapper Oxie

I settle back on a red leather chaise and self-consciously adjust my glasses. The shrink sits across from me, hunched over the clip board that rests on his knees. His loafers press together, like the dot to his question mark. After a little hemming and hawing, he finally looks up and asks:

“How do you feel about this old friend you’ve told me about? This Oxford Comma?”

I knew the question was coming, but I panic a little anyway. To control my nerves, I pull my glasses off and clutch them, pressing my hands against my stomach. I consider how much he looks like a question mark, now that his form has blobbed into an indistinct curve. Continue reading

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