I take the act of avoiding small talk as seriously as the pentagon does counter-terrorism. It’s not like I ever have anywhere important to be, but it still grinds my ass when someone tries to impede the process of me getting from point A to point B. Point A is where I am now, point B is where I’d like to be in the near future, and standing between the two hypothetical points is motor-mouth Marty.
Listening to someone with irritable-mouth syndrome is like winding up a pair of those chattering teeth toys. Five minutes of watching someone’s head bob back and fourth, their hands mimicking every word spewing from their mouths, and I’m reaching for the Dramamine.
Over the years, I’ve learned a lot of useless information, and I find it troublesome to know how many twits are wandering around, aimlessly in search of someone to sort out their…
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