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I was down all weekend and very frustrated with myself, because I cannot for love, money, or the Great State of Texas, talk to people. It's shameful that I should be able to express myself when I write, but flail around like a circus geek with an amputated tounge when it comes to actually talking to people. A writer who can't talk; such a cliche. Frankly, I find it very off-putting. The only people who should have that sort of crippling inability to speak should be those whose literary or artistic genius is so profound that to funnel any bit of expression through any means but their particular talent would be a crime against humanity. This is probably why Michelangelo didn't tap dance. But I am not one of those talents. I am a good writer, not a profound one. Not once have I been confused with John Donne or Soren Keirkegaard in a dark alley, not even with my hair is up. So I think one's social disability should be proportionate to one's talent. If DaVinci, the master of all masters, was a social cripple; then the guy who painted Dogs Playing Poker probably just stuttered. Following this reason, since I do not have a huge talent, my social malfunction should be limited. I should stand too close to everyone, use "good" where "well" ought to go and "axe" in place of "ask." That's it. No ridiculous babbling followed by a dead fish-eyed stare. Oof. It's a pain to suffer for an art I'll never master. Post a comment in response: |
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