I made some small talk earlier. You know, small talk. Something about the weather, and then something about some plants. I don’t fucking remember, I was terrible at it. If approached in a public space by some well meaning stranger just looking for a simple chat to pass the time or to muse on the latest bus timetable I clam up. I sweat. I grimace as though I am passing a particularly painful kidney stone through an inflamed urethra. I yip, cringe and generally buffoon myself into a new dimension. It’s little wonder therefore that now I’m forced to do it often I spend a majority of my days glowering at the world defensively.
I’m so bad at it but so keen to make a decent impression that I often wonder what the hell people are thinking of me. I usually do this while I’m talking, thereby derailing whatever I was saying so that I just….trail….off…..slowly. As another conversational turd floats by.
Here’s an example. This is an ACTUAL conversation which ACTUALLY HAPPENED sometime today. These words below are the ACTUAL ones spoken by me with my big flapping mouth and my social skills which could fit on the head of a pin.
Person; “Isn’t it a lovely day?”
Me; “Yes haha, good to see the sun again. Was beginning to think it was a nuclear winter. Is that a thing, a nuclear winter? Or does a bomb have to be dropped first?”
Person; “I’m not sure -”
Me; “I suppose if a bomb did have to be dropped first a ‘nuclear winter’ would be one in which we’re all mutants and victims of radiation, wouldn’t it?”
Me: “Would make Christmas a bit depressing wouldn’t it, haha. Still, we’ll probably all end up moaning about the sun in a week or so won’t we? Aren’t humans funny? OUR ATTITUDE STINKS. And a book of stamps, please.”
I can’t do smalltalk. Similarly, I can’t do ‘Play it Cool’ either. You know what ‘Play it Cool’ is, right? For instance;
“Look over there Daisy, it’s hot early nineties hunk Keanu Reeves. He’s been checking you out for ages fly girl so I’m going to go to the bar and give him the opportunity to cruise over here.
Play it Cool, alright?”
I immediately start breaking out some freaky body popping, or breakdance my way into the future, or talk about bumsex or try out a new yodel. Awful.
NO WONDER I NEVER HAD SEX WITH KEANU REEVES IN THE NINETIES.