11:41 a.m. - 2001-09-15
Gardenhose
I like to talk. Writing to me is like trying to run a fire hydrant through a garden hose. I have been blessed with the gift of translating my feelings and emotions into english at a speed that far surpasses my typing skills.

I can talk though. It has been very dificult to find people who can keep up with me. I've used that to my advantage over and over again in my life. It has been my power, a blessing and an undeniable curse. I yearn for outside points of veiw and input, but it is difficult to recieve when am able to take someones point, pick it apart, put it back together , and explain their feelings back to them in a more concise and accurate way, before they're finished a sentence.

Sound egotistical? That is really not the point. I don't think that my packaging, my gift of expression, makes what I feel more relevant or correct than people who are not able to explain themselves as well as me. When it comes to writing though, I am forced to slow down my process to a near crawl. I remember watching Doogie Howser M.D. and being frustrated to the point of wanting to pull my hair out, agonozing as he typed his sitcom moral into his computer diary at the end of each episode at the pace of an 80 year old pulling a Buick out of their driveway. I now feel that frustration first hand and it is truly maddening.

I don't even think I can go on with this now. I feel like if I even begin to touch on anything of substance I will be forced to pour water on this 'puter in a fit of childish rage. I'm sure I'll learn to type faster as time goes on, and learn to process my thoghts in a way that is more condusive to capturing them though my fingers rather than through my mouthpiece, but until then Ima get away from this alphabetabulator and go annoy one of my friends with a barrage of verbal eloquence fit only for one who is able to tune me out while giving the apearance of complete attention.

FYMF

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