I have inexplicably picked up a Southwestern Virginian accent at work.  I have to talk a lot on my job (like, a lot, and considering that I am a horrible speaker it’s hard for me to believe that’s how I make a living) and late in the day my tongue gets fat and I either hit a stride and sound like a very well-prepared recording, or I turn into a stuttering mess.  I have a hard time fighting this accent that is not true to me at all, but it just seems natural.  It makes me sound super friendly.  I can’t tell if I should try to keep it from happening, because I am afraid that I will talk like that forever.  It doesn’t happen anywhere else, though.  When the accent kicks in I feel like I have things to say about VDOT and rural routes.

In other news, there was a hummingbird in my backyard the other day.  I have set unicorn bait.  There is all sorts of prettiness in my garden with the mystical birds, vegetables growing, butterflies — all that fancy crap.  It is a source of endless pride, although I am only responsible for a small part of it.


Also, I reluctantly agreed to get rid of my orange couch.  I loved that old thing.  I bought it from Ikea years ago, and it served me well in my apartment by myself.  I thought I would get emotional seeing it go (I cry during Verizon commericials, it’s not unlikely that I would cry over a couch). I even wrote an obituary for it, and wanted to get all of my pals to write down their greatest memories from that couch (we all watched “Amar Akbar Anthony” on that thing.  I cooked you dinner at some point, that’s where I sat while we g-chatted in 2005).  It was my dining room table, the setting for my afternoon nap, the first piece of furniture I bought on my own.  But as we dragged it to the shed I could see the years of matted Milhouse fur and the busted fabric peeling off the seat, and I suddenly didn’t feel bad knowing it would end up in the alley.  So much for sentimentality.  Suck it, youth.  We bought a couch from La Diff!