Public Speaking and Worrywarts

And once again, I’m sitting in the public speaking lecture. I think this might just be my writing hour for the week. The hour in the week where I just zone out my lecturer and simply struggle against the chaos of my mind to put my thoughts down on paper (virtual paper?) in a form that allows some sort of coherence.

And once again I slip into my default mode of rambling on, writing sentences that seem to go on forever, the same way some of the sentences that Tolkien wrote used to seem.

Back on topic though, public speaking.

I took the module so that I could possibly have a module which I didn’t need to study for, which I could bank on for a potentially easy good grade.

Boy, was I wrong. The speeches that you have to deliver have to actually be researched. Can you believe it? The nerve of the moderators, making me work for my grades. How dare they. I daresay this might be cause for mutiny.

I’ve delivered 2 speeches so far, one which was introductory and one which was commemorative. I spoke about myself for the first one, due to the confusing reason of duh. The commemorative speech was more difficult, because you had to squeeze the lifestory of whosoever you spoke about, into 4 minutes. I chose to speak about my father, because of reasons. It was the obvious choice for me, with a father such as the one I have. But that’s a story for another day.

The last thing I’d like to talk about it worrying. It’s worrying how much worrying is done by people who worry about things they have no business worrying about. And yet, they do. On a constant, daily basis. The worrying is done in private, in public, softly, loudly, everywhere and anywhere.

I wish I didn’t worry so much. Now I’m worried that my worrying is having a negative effect on my body, my life. I worry so much, I’m worried I’ll get white hair. Then I worry about the effect white hair would have on my beautiful face. Then I worry if my face is indeed beautiful, which is short lived because of course it isn’t. Then I proceed to worry about how I can make sure my un-beautiful face is not passed along to my progeny.

I’m worried.

Toodle-poo.

(I worry that my sign off is offensive.)

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