I hate when I’m telling a story and by the end of the chronicle I can’t remember the point I was trying to make. Huh? Explain you’re nonsense wench. What the hell are you saying? Or sometimes, what even brought me to tell the saga. Oh crap. Am I Chatty Cathy that likes to hear myself talk? Shit. I hope not. We need another Bugging Betty like another hole in the head. I don’t know… maybe another hole could be used somehow. I like to entertain people. Make them laugh and feel… even if it’s because I clumsily tried to move a wall with my leg. Because, I’m a klutz. I walk into tables, fall on my underwear laying on the floor. It doesn’t take much. Unfortunately, I can’t stop the belly aching laughter if I happen to see you trip on a sidewalk. Sorry, in advance, but if I can plummet head first over a pair of trashy lingerie, I am going to laugh so hard you’re boyfriend’s balls fall off.
But what’s the fun in that if you end up narrating epics that just irritate people. Hi sleeping bear, I’m going to poke you. I just want to see what happens. You’ve done it too, don’t judge. What’s worse, is if you don’t realize you’re the talkaholic in a group. You’re blabbing away, authoring novella after novelette, thinking people care about what you’re going on about. They don’t. In reality, they are secretly plotting how to get your voice box removed. Most of the time, we tell other people fables because we feel safe in the environment we are in to tell them. Feel less safe. Please. For the sanctity of our precious little piggly wiggly ears. Or we blather endlessly because we are nervous or feel pressure to keep some kind of noise in the air. Fill the void. I’m a thinker. Which causes me to frame words.
Not intentionally, it just happens. Right. Just like peeing in the toilet. Well, last time I checked, you can cap your stream. Try it sometime. You just might save someone the agonizing spinning of yarns and return your calls next time you want to hang out.