I like to think that I have a pretty good grasp on the English language. I know the function of subjective clauses, can use words like "tawdry" or "misanthropic" without blinking, and have been able to read and write going on 17 years now. I also like to think that my mind is capable of being, at worst, adequately deep and analytical.
Blah blah blah, so I can pwn you in Scrabble and tell you which "a/effect" to use. To what end?
Apparently my gifts are display models only. Like the tawdry leg-lamp from A Christmas Story, my skills sure look pretty, but serve no real function. You would think that one such as I would have a lot to say about, oh, Hamlet, but AP English can attest to the fact that I only had about 300 words to spare pertaining to the play. Verbally, I'm characteristically long winded. On paper, I'm little more than a haiku. Perhaps a limerick on good days.
Writing is, however, a passion of mine, and I like to spend time making lists (to-do, pro/con, top 5, etc...) or chronicling my life via this here blog or pen/paper. I find it especially helpful to write out my thoughts on issues that I would find otherwise difficult to give voice to (ex: Dear roomie, your big creepy ex-boyfriend, while welcome to sleep over, should really not be left alone to scar me for life be more careful about his sleep apparel...).
That said, I have a lot of important decisions coming up in my life that seem to necessitate a minimum amount of intellectual and emotional certainty. So, being a creature of habit, I sat down to detail my precise thoughts about a number of things. What I plan to do about a career. Where I want to live. Where I see myself in 5 years. How attached I am to That Guy. Things like that. Important things. Things I apparently don't have complicated opinions about, as it took me all of half a typed page to get everything down.
Either I'm very sure of what I want in life, or my emotions are so deep they lend no language. Let's go with the former.
I see your wedding band. Don't think that I don't automatically check for those when assessing how I should approach you. It's cute when we exchange witty banter. It's even cute when you wink at me after I give you a cheeky smile as I walk away to place your order, and then nudge-nudge your colleagues. It's not cute when you comment on my body type or in a double-whammy of information seeking hypothetically remark upon my sex life with my boyfriend. Yes, I'm flirting with you and yes, when you flirt back, I will continue to reciprocate. It's called working for tips. I will not, however, give you my number or meet up with you for drinks later, you committed ass clown. I might be selling my personality for money, but that's it. If you're in the business of paying girls for their time, get a hooker, it's less fattening.