Why I Use PSS and not PPS

I’m the kind of guy who’s firm with grammar (although I can’t deny my grammar isn’t that perfect). Often I’ve been corrected of the pss I left in my postings.

PS – post scriptum is Latin. What comes after that should be pps, post postscript or pre postscript (as some would put it). But I use pss and so forth.

I’m going to tell you why but it’ll be lengthy, so, if you hate reading a melancholy story, press Alt + F4 or Windows, U and U. Else, after the jump.

I used to correspond with a stage 4 cancer patient. I learned about her death when she stops replying. I wanted to visit her grave, but it would’ve cost me my arms and legs, maybe one day.

She’s Catholic, a lady by the book. She had no family, non that she knew of. Same year of birth and from Greece. She was witty, the kind of quality I’d admire.

She found me at TazQirah.com (which is in cesspool now). We used to argue about faith (I used the word argue because our replies were unusually in ire). We were literally pulling each other’s hair. I would’ve thrown the kitchen sink if I could.

It was the case of standing up for ones belief or trying to convert each other.

But at the end of every mail, we’d leave a ps-question and a pss-answer, stuff to cool off the topic. Questions like, ‘how’s supper?’ or ‘Did you go out today?’. Answers like, ‘the trainy doc has flawless teeth’ or ‘I hate broccolli’. It was uncanny.

Although I’ve told her the correct notation would be PPS, she insisted on using PSS. According to her, it sounded more like ‘psst’, the initial hissing sound when you want to whisper. And since we can’t whisper on mail, a PSS would suffice.

Faith fights aside, we became close friends. So close that we’d tell our dark secrets. So close that we’d pat each other’s back on bad days. So close like Xia Wei and Shu Qi in So Close.

A week passed, she hasn’t reply. I’m sure there were more than a guy corresponding with her. After all, she had the luxury of connecting to the Internet. Plus, she might be busy.

Behind that screen name, I thought she’s some bored 40-year-old man who’s stuck in the office doing some clerical work. So I couldn’t care more about her well being.

Another week passed. A month. Soon half a year. I almost forgot about her until it was time for email spring cleaning. Neatly tucked under one folder, was all her replies. My curiosity grew, so I rang the hospital and asked for her.

It took a few jumps before I could talk to right person. I was worried about the International charges actually.

“This girl is gone”, The I-Speak-Little-English lady blurtted. “Gone? What do you mean gone?”. “7 months, dead.” I hung up before I could thank the lady. So was she was real.

There were many words left unsaid, many more pss unwritten. And the one word that signifies a man, Sorry.

ps: I miss her. I missed the intellectual fight.

pss: I wrote this in 2 hours and edited in 5 hours. Yes, I’m slow. Originally, twice as long. But truncated to meet your lazy reading habit. Plus, I don’t want to waste your time reading unaccountable details.

psss: Don’t ask again, why pss, not pps?