Stories

We made purses out of duct tape at the library today, and Wendy and Abby (by which I mean David, who was her fill-in) came!  I love to show off my place of business to people I love.

David and I worked at a table together, and it was lovely to discuss epic light saber duels and how apparently everyone has always called me a tall turtle, but I realized something.  I suck at telling stories.  David went off on how his great-uncle killed a snake, and it was suspenseful and hilarious.  So I thought of my own holiday recollection, and no kidding, it went like this.

"Oh!  So at Christmas, my grandpa said something, but it wasn't exactly true, so he said, 'And that's almost the truth!'  It was so funny!  So we kept saying it the rest of the day, and he didn't even know that he had started it.  HAHAHAHAHA."

David didn't even respond (though later I called him on lying and he smirked, "That's almost the truth"). 

I am not pleased with my suckage.  This is exactly why I write and do not speak.  Unless, of course, I am similarly deluded as to my skill in writing.  Which would be tragic, because then I would have no means of communication left to me!

Also I write because in person I look like this:

Me:  Hey Wendy, can I use some of your duct tape?  I ran--
Wendy:  Oh my gosh!  Tricia, what's wrong with your eye!?
Me:  ...Thank you for drawing attention to my deformity.

Five days now.  It was good this morning until I put in contacts, and now it hurts even with them out.  Probably I will have to see a doctor or something.  I like my eyeball!  I would prefer to keep it!  However, wearing an eyepatch for a while would only be awesome.