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.