Audiobook Demo Reel
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
there is a subtle art to not giving a funk. And though the concept may sound ridiculous and I may sound like a *****, What I'm talking about here is essentially learning how to focus and prioritize your thoughts effectively how to pick and choose what matters to you and what does not matter to you based on finally honed personal values. This is incredibly difficult. It takes a lifetime of practice and discipline to achieve and you will regularly fail. But it is perhaps the most worthy struggle one can undertake in one's life. It is perhaps the only struggle in one's life because when you give too many funks, when you give a **** about everyone and everything, you will feel that you're perpetually entitled to be comfortable and happy at all times that everything is supposed to be just exactly the ******* way you want it to be. This is a sickness and it will eat you alive. Just the other day I was in home Depot picking up some light bulbs when I saw a couple around my age looking at paint chips. She was pretty and petite and he was wiry and balding and they were both wearing khakis and they were quietly in love. They were talking about the room, They were painting about the color of the carpet, the couches and the wood of the armoire and the woman had brought one of the curtain ties with her to match, which is what Haley would have done. And I watched them showing each other paint chips holding them against the curtain tie and I pictured them back in their tope living room, on their mushroom coloured couch, watching television tangled up in each other. And I was thinking that they could lose each other tomorrow. That one or both of them could be dead before the paint on their walls had dried. And the woman looked at me an alarm and I realized that I said it out loud and the husband stepped forward like he was going to start something with me, but then he just reached into his pocket and handed me a crumpled tissue. And that's when I realized I was crying. She could feel the torrents of frightened tears streaming down her own pale cheeks as at this moment all she desperately wanted to do was run away to forget about these woods and never come back. And as her failed attempts at escape never ceased her eyes remained locked, never breaking from that of the dead child. She watched on as though silent. Please slowly eventually grew into an airy, violently, desperate whisper. But the girl still didn't care, and continued to sob in absolute terror all the while, still pulling in vain to rent your arm back from the McCobb vision before, even though now she could make out what the terrible visage was saying. Clear as day it was repeating, repeating the same words over and over again. Help me Leila, help me! And that was finally enough through pain, please in response and fits of still frantically trying to free yourself. The girl finally found the words to scream out No, no, go away! Stop it! Stop it! Please! Leave me alone! Leave me alone, rising from his chair. The man in black leaned forward over the table to show dairy in his ID card attached to the court on his belt. The idea had a photo of the rugged looking man and a name written in bold black letters. Lawrence and Derby. Lawrence let the card slipped from his hand as he sat back down and it flew back to its position at his waist. Well, nice to meet you. Larry. Lawrence? Not Larry as far as you're concerned, you may call me Mr N Derby. All right, Darien said Mr N Derby, can you please explain to me why you guys keep smacking me to the floor? Why did you drag me into this? Darien looked around him interrogation room. It's for your own protection. My protection, dairy, and almost yelled. And let me guess. I'm still restrained in case I want to cut my own throat with my fingernails. Something like that. People do crazy things. I twist my head. I'm both very relieved and supremely annoyed to see that. It's quint. Quint, I bark! I said split up. Why didn't you split? I did split? He replies when I split I split left. That's how I split. I yell at Quint, but he doesn't hear me. It's hard to hear anything over the sound of the worms slithering and slicing its way around the corner. Great Job Quint! I holler because there's two of us that were among Bulus decided that we're dinner. An instant later the Homunculus barrels down the corridor, streaking past us like an oversized snot rocket come to life. I catch my breath, get to my feet and inch out into the corridor. The worm ungulates left a trail of yellow worm goo and the floor is now a slick mess. I watch it crash into Nordstrom and disappear in a cloud of dust and oh yeah, I forgot to take a picture.