I have a talking problem.
I always have. When I was little, I can remember getting in a 'fight' with my mom. (If I remember, she told me to clean my room. Ahem.) My punishment for her was going to be to spend all day without talking to her.
I lasted fifteen minutes.
I was a compulsive storyteller, even as a kid. I had stuffed animals by the dozens, and all of them had a history. Some of them had enemies and most of them had a couple of designated friends. Then there were the barbies.
I was a Barbiac.
I know. It's a terrible thing. I should be ashamed. I have moved past my adolescent denial, though, and now fully admit it.
Not only did they have stories, they had life missions. They had fights with their boyfriends, they rescued princes from dragons. . .
. . . yes, even as a six year old the sexist thing bother me . . .
Today, talking was a bit of an issue. Got yelled at for it in class, talked my mom to the seclusion of her room, ect, ect.
No wonder I like writing.
You get to ramble on and on, and then you get to read it back and sometimes out loud, and it's just more and more talking. Not even Barbie world lives up to it. (My inner child is screaming defiance at that last statement.)
Quite seriously, though. Not only can the princess rescue the prince, but she can save the world. Plus, she can do it without being plastic and having a two centimeter waist.
What more could you ask for?
Oh, shut up.