As many people would likely tell you, I don’t talk a lot. In fact, I would say that’s what most people would say about me if pressed to come up with something, anything, to say about me. That or some variation – “He’s really quiet” “He seems shy” “Does he have a pulse?” “Who?” – would be the go-to response.
Evidently it’s something of a defining characteristic*, or at least so I’ve gathered.
And it’s true. Compared to most people, I don’t talk a lot.
There are, of course, many reasons for that, but that’s not what this is about.
While, in general, I don’t talk a lot to people, I do spend a fair amount of time talking to inanimate objects, abstract concepts, hypothetical people, and the singers of the songs I listen to at home or when I’m driving to work.
Here are some examples of that last one.
Garbage: Come back to my house, stick a stone in your mouth…
Me: …I…no thank you?
Alice In Chains: What’s the difference? I’ll die in this sick world of mine….
Me: *Sigh* You sure did, Layne. You sure did.
Dido: Take my hand, and if I’m lying to you…
Me: “If,” Dido?
Liz Phair: I bet you fall in bed too easily with the beautiful girls who are shyly brave…
Me: Wow, you’ve really got my number, Liz. That’s classic me.
Rob Zombie: How can I make you understand?
Me: Well, Rob, you might put a little more thought into your actual lyrics.
Dido: See you when you’re forty, lost and all alone…
Me: Go fuck yourself, Dido.
*It’s either that or a complete lack of any defining or noteworthy characteristics whatsoever.