I’ve been told I’m interesting. Interesting. Interesting. What a word. The word it self is interesting, in turn, this extract a response by the sound. The ebb and flow of the reverberation made between the “in” and the “tere” tailed by the “sting”.
But those are things I learned in linguistics. Linguistics is a class that was interesting. We learned about language, the spoken form coughed from the throat curled off the tongue like an illicit act. So there are noise-forming words with meaning, which in turn, are also interesting.
I suppose there are interesting aspects about me. I have dimples. I have a deviated septum. I'm articulate. I can drink more alcohol than the average person. These might be interesting. Or more so, they might be inches above the average stimuli of positive emotion. That sentence was interesting.
But here is an interesting snippet about me: I wore a body cast up to my armpits from the age of two to three. Yet, I only remember what I’ve seen of that moment in my life from pictures. To fine-tune that statement, I remember the pictures I’ve seen of myself not the year I spent immobile or the way the plaster felt against my skin. I don't remember the year I spent learning to walk after that. I remember a Polaroid I’ve seen of myself.
Photographic memory. I have one of those two. That’s interesting.
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