I Don’t Want to Talk to You…

I don’t want to talk to you during a movie.  I don’t care who you are, what our relationship is, whether I love you, hate you or don’t know you.  If you talk to me while I’m watching a movie at the theatre, I will mentally snap your jaw in thirds.

I don’t want to talk to you, Stranger-Lady, while I’m bra shopping at Target.  Yes, I agree the plain grey Fruit of the Loom cotton, frill-less, no-nonsense bra is the most comfortable out there.   I. Don’t. Know. You.  I don’t want to chit-chat about your 44DD’s.

I don’t want to talk to you, Mr. Skeazy-Dude-With-A-Kid, while riding the subway.  I don’t want to talk to you and I DEFINITELY don’t want you to hit on me while you’re sitting next to your 7-year-old son.  You don’t think you’re being obvious, you say?  I’m pretty sure your son just asked you, “Daddy, why you talking funny to that lady?”  Good question kid.

I don’t want to talk to stupid people.  Sorry.  I just don’t.

I don’t want to talk to you Ms. 76-Year-Old-Cashier-Lady.  I normally wouldn’t have anything against chatting with you for a hot second, but after watching the girl in front of me with the awesome hair pay & leave (with the hairstyle I’m planning on stealing tomorrow) you just smiled and said to me, “Don’t you wish we were young & cute enough to have hair like that?”  …                   bitch.

I don’t want to talk to you, Airplane-Seat-Neighbor.  I don’t.  Ever.  I mean it.  I will play deaf.  I will pretend I don’t speak English.  I don’t want to be your single-serving-friend.

I don’t want to talk to you, Nice-But-Annoying-Co-Worker-Girl, when I’m in the bathroom.  It’s always awkward.  Always.  Two reasons:  A.  You’re Awkward.  B.  It’s a bathroom.

To all you Chatty-Patty’s out there; If you are lonely, get a dog.  Not a cat.  Dogs are better.  Get one from a shelter.  Not a puppy-mill pet store.  Shelters are better.

Word.


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Posted on May 24, 2011, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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