Slow Down

I'm a pretty fast talker. I think there's a misconception that Southerners talk slowly. (And that they don't pronounce the "r" on ends of words...but moving on...) Not me. I talk fast. I slur my words. And I talk a lot. My mother can understand me. My dad usually can't. He doesn't have patience for my stories either. (Admittedly, they can get rather long.) My dad thinks it's fun (and necessary) to caution me, before I launch into a story, "Thirty words or less." It's exasperating (in a humorous way), because, as I tell him every time, there is background info he needs to know. The story isn't the same without it. And, when he tries to rush me, I only talk faster. Sean finds it "endearing," though he interrupts with this gem when I get going too fast: "And period. Pause." With my friends, well, I know I've lost them when they start nodding robotically, eyes glazed over. But my thought on the situation is this: I'm such a fast thinker, my poor mouth can't keep up with my brain. It's a curse, really.