I love telling stories. It's like a cheaper, easier version of being on stage. The problem is that I'm terrible at telling stories. I've been told by many people throughout my life that listening to my stories is similar to Chinese torture methods. I personally think these people are just a little dramatic.
Whenever I start telling a story, it's usually preluded with some poor soul introducing me "Elina, tell them what happened! Oh my god, it's so funny." Great. Now I have to embarrass them in the most enjoyable way. I'm torn. I know this will be terrible, but I love telling fucking stories! I like chocolate, being under an umbrella at the beach, getting to 0 unread emails at work, and telling stories. All equally.
Fuck it, right? Here we go. The words start coming out of my mouth and I'm already starting to say "Wait, but so what happened before that was...well okay let me start from the day before so you know what's going on..." and the eyes begin to roll. What they don't understand is that I'm doing this for them. I want them to be there. To see what was seen, feel what was felt, and if I can incorporate it, smell what was...smelt?
You'd think the body language - looking toward doors and windows, quick exhales as a fake laugh, checking time on cellphones - would make me stop, but it doesn't. It just cries out for me to try harder. Captivate them! What's wrong with you, you paraplegic jester!
So I ask a question. That's right, I fucking quiz them. If I can't think of a good question, I go with the default "Right? I mean what would you have thought?" Gets them every time. I didn't ask for this, they did.
They usually reply with a generic "Oh yeah, that's crazy" and I take it personally. Why wouldn't I? I'm an Aries for crying out loud. So I start to get more aggressive with the story. This is when I start to act out part of the story. I might even change my voice for each character in the story. This is probably my favorite moment in story telling.
By now I've been rambling for about 4 minutes and the idiot that asked me to tell the story is staring at me, hands out, palms up, wondering what the hell has possessed me. It's sort of a half concerned, half in pain sort of look. It's cute.
At minute 6, I throw in the towel, raise the white flag, don't shoot! I surrender and you're welcome, suckers. You just spent the last 6 minutes of your existence learning nothing of what happened. You just spent the last two minutes trying to gauge now much longer it would take for me to stop flapping my arms up and down and crossing my eyes for effect. You now hate me just a little bit and I have just had the ride of my fucking life. God, I love telling stories...
Whenever I start telling a story, it's usually preluded with some poor soul introducing me "Elina, tell them what happened! Oh my god, it's so funny." Great. Now I have to embarrass them in the most enjoyable way. I'm torn. I know this will be terrible, but I love telling fucking stories! I like chocolate, being under an umbrella at the beach, getting to 0 unread emails at work, and telling stories. All equally.
Fuck it, right? Here we go. The words start coming out of my mouth and I'm already starting to say "Wait, but so what happened before that was...well okay let me start from the day before so you know what's going on..." and the eyes begin to roll. What they don't understand is that I'm doing this for them. I want them to be there. To see what was seen, feel what was felt, and if I can incorporate it, smell what was...smelt?
You'd think the body language - looking toward doors and windows, quick exhales as a fake laugh, checking time on cellphones - would make me stop, but it doesn't. It just cries out for me to try harder. Captivate them! What's wrong with you, you paraplegic jester!
So I ask a question. That's right, I fucking quiz them. If I can't think of a good question, I go with the default "Right? I mean what would you have thought?" Gets them every time. I didn't ask for this, they did.
They usually reply with a generic "Oh yeah, that's crazy" and I take it personally. Why wouldn't I? I'm an Aries for crying out loud. So I start to get more aggressive with the story. This is when I start to act out part of the story. I might even change my voice for each character in the story. This is probably my favorite moment in story telling.
By now I've been rambling for about 4 minutes and the idiot that asked me to tell the story is staring at me, hands out, palms up, wondering what the hell has possessed me. It's sort of a half concerned, half in pain sort of look. It's cute.
At minute 6, I throw in the towel, raise the white flag, don't shoot! I surrender and you're welcome, suckers. You just spent the last 6 minutes of your existence learning nothing of what happened. You just spent the last two minutes trying to gauge now much longer it would take for me to stop flapping my arms up and down and crossing my eyes for effect. You now hate me just a little bit and I have just had the ride of my fucking life. God, I love telling stories...
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