Goodness me, that's a lot of errors. I have to either update my journal, or get my seppuku on. Do you have any idea how much an honorable katana costs?
I thought I'd list some of what I've decided to whimsically refer to as my more endearing quirks.
I am convinced that uncarpeted staircases hunger for my teeth. I can't walk down an uncarpeted staircase without gripping the handbar like a claustrophobic confirmed ground-dweller on an aeroplane. If I have to surrender the handrail, I start to grind my teeth, or conscientiously open my mouth in the hope of limiting the inevitable blow when I fall.
I've never, ever, ever hurt myself falling down stairs[1]. This is a completely unfounded fear.
I anthropomorphise everything. It took my a year to move my collection of stuffed animals out of my bedroom, and when I did I had to make sure they were all in the same box (so nobody felt lonely).
I talk fast. likeihaveaproblemwithamphetamines[2]. When I really get going I tend to gesticulate wildly (I apprenticed in baristery and gesticulation under an italian master, and I took my lessons to heart). I'm trying to find a way to insert footnotes into my speech, because I hate being constrained to a linear flow of conversation. It's like being locked in a box in the bottom of a drawer. In Canberra. I want out!
I love to cook, but my cooking is often an adventure into parts unknown. It's never intended as something that should end with a "Dr Livingstone, I presume?", it's just that when I decide to make honey soy un-chicken rice, I don't notice until I'm irrevocably commited that I lack honey. And soy. And un-chicken. And, inexplicably, rice.
This happens most often at one in the morning. Often, with an audience.
The last time I fell down a flight of stairs, a Czech girl asked me if I'd studied ballet.
I obsess over how my friends smell. I have an internal database with notes, and citations. I can tell you who smells best, but I won't. That's gross.
I love to talk about myself. There really isn't anything I'd rather do. If I could professionally talk about myself whilst having sex, I'd be thrilled to bits.
When I'm bored, I like to make trouble. Right now, for example, I'm pregnant with the antichrist.
I thought I'd list some of what I've decided to whimsically refer to as my more endearing quirks.
I am convinced that uncarpeted staircases hunger for my teeth. I can't walk down an uncarpeted staircase without gripping the handbar like a claustrophobic confirmed ground-dweller on an aeroplane. If I have to surrender the handrail, I start to grind my teeth, or conscientiously open my mouth in the hope of limiting the inevitable blow when I fall.
I've never, ever, ever hurt myself falling down stairs[1]. This is a completely unfounded fear.
I anthropomorphise everything. It took my a year to move my collection of stuffed animals out of my bedroom, and when I did I had to make sure they were all in the same box (so nobody felt lonely).
I talk fast. likeihaveaproblemwithamphetamines[2]. When I really get going I tend to gesticulate wildly (I apprenticed in baristery and gesticulation under an italian master, and I took my lessons to heart). I'm trying to find a way to insert footnotes into my speech, because I hate being constrained to a linear flow of conversation. It's like being locked in a box in the bottom of a drawer. In Canberra. I want out!
I love to cook, but my cooking is often an adventure into parts unknown. It's never intended as something that should end with a "Dr Livingstone, I presume?", it's just that when I decide to make honey soy un-chicken rice, I don't notice until I'm irrevocably commited that I lack honey. And soy. And un-chicken. And, inexplicably, rice.
This happens most often at one in the morning. Often, with an audience.
The last time I fell down a flight of stairs, a Czech girl asked me if I'd studied ballet.
I obsess over how my friends smell. I have an internal database with notes, and citations. I can tell you who smells best, but I won't. That's gross.
I love to talk about myself. There really isn't anything I'd rather do. If I could professionally talk about myself whilst having sex, I'd be thrilled to bits.
When I'm bored, I like to make trouble. Right now, for example, I'm pregnant with the antichrist.
VIEW 23 of 23 COMMENTS
Talking faster wouldn't help me. One of the most common reasons that I stumble over my words is that I'm mentally stepping back from what I'm saying and editing it. Sometimes I'll make three or four false starts into a sentence as I keep thinking of different ways to express something. If I spoke faster all that would happen would be I'd get even further into what I was saying before I had to reverse out of the sentence and come back into it, and that would make me even more annoying to listen to.
I'm told I have a pleasant speaking voice, which hopefully is useful in winning me a little grace on things like this.