I hate giving up my words. In school when we had to write five hundred word essays, it nearly broke my heart to leave so many of my friends behind. What right do I have to choose who shall live and who shall remain abandoned and alone in Websters? See, I love my words. All of them. Like a good handbag, there is one for every occasion, and the right adjective will even slim your thighs.
As I prepare for this year’s conference at work, I am being forced (forced!) to whittle my words down to only ninety per session description, and I think it is criminal. Ninety! How can I possibly do this? Where are the pro-word activists? Why are we not demonstrating in the streets? How much succinctness can a society take?? It is a travesty, I tell you.
While I am a fine wordsmith on paper, I can never seem to get words out of my mouth when the situation calls for them. I fall squarely into the really, really quiet category, with ventures into the stammering, sputtering, self conscious category. So when, for instance, Chris and I were out for a walk the other evening, and a drunk college moron, gathered with his buddies on a second story balcony bellowed, “Nice rack!” I was left bereft of my precious words. I would like to say that I replied haughtily, “You’re a pretty big boob yourself”, but those words didn’t come to me until safely out of danger of being useful.
So, if you’ve got advice or techniques on how to make these words useful in more situations than conference session descriptions and high school essays, I’d appreciate it. Also, I’ll take any rebuttals for the “Nice rack!” for my rebuttal arsenal.
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