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Something terrible has happened.

Today, one of my new hires asked me if I was from the South.

Apparently I was drawing out my vowels too much…I’ll have to look out for that. It shan’t happen again. *shudder*

I think I’ll blame it on my elaborate fantasy life, which has me constantly cycling through all kinds of little twitches in my speech patterns and voice pitches and word pronunciations to amuse myself…fake accents and cartoon voices included.
I’ll specifically blame this one on Melody though. I wouldn’t do it if I hadn’t spent so many hundreds of hours listening to her talk on the phone.

The South.

Here is another thing that’s kind of terrible:
I’ve been reading through this book of creepy stories that I last read when I was maybe…twelve? Well, the book found its way back to me recently, and I might not’ve recognized it if it hadn’t been one of those books with slightly creepy drawings every few pages, too. But yeah. I’m surprised at how many authors were featured in this book whose names I recognise and whose writing I have read on purpose…authors like Steven King, Philip K. Dick, or Algernon Blackwood.

Some of the stories aren’t quite the same anymore though. Like one which is just a plain, modern-English telling of Beowulf. And another, which is about a Teddy bear…and wherein the narrator of that particular story tells about a dad who fixes up his daughter’s Teddy, and gives it a voice box with a computer brain so that it can have (supposedly) simple conversations with the girl…and how he overhears a little girl arguing with this bear, but can’t hear what the bear is saying in its little growly voice. All he can make out is what the girl is saying, and she gets increasingly upset with the bear and starts shouting “you’re wrong!” and “but might is not right! It isn’t!” And crying because the Teddy is winning.

But here I am, choking a little bit while I read this because, just…wth? I am pretty sure that the age group this story collection was intended for is not going to pick up on what they are arguing about. Twelve-year-old me didn’t, for sure. But what do I know, eh?