British American


It saddens me deeply to think that I will never be British.

Not naturally, anyway. Though I suppose one could always go through the tedious process of applying for British citizenship and spending the next thirty or forty years attempting to develop that wondrous accent. (And despite the tedium, I’m quite tempted to do just that…)

As introverted as the come, I find myself often commiserating with the English as they bemoan the annoyance of day-to-day interaction with the rest of the world. I, too, dislike the conversation of random strangers, with whom I have nothing in common but the misfortune of having crossed paths. I, too, dread the day that I get into a cab and find myself trapped with a particularly “chatty” driver. And I, too, much prefer the company of a good book and a decent cup of tea (often coffee).

However, for the moment, I am trapped in America. The land of poor grammar and even poorer ideals (but I won’t get political in this post). A land where “vest” means “waistcoat,” rather than underwear, and and a land where far too many people fervently believe the past tense of “drag” is “drug.”

It’s dragged.

It’s always dragged.

A Brit would know this.


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