My mom told me this weekend that I sound too upbeat in my blog, and that it doesn’t reflect how I am in real life.
So, for the sake of bloging with integrity, I am going to reveal that, as you may have surmised by my numerous social media profiles, my blog posts, and pictures of myself in various situations, I am antisocial and I hate small talk. This is a problem for me because the building I live in consists entirety of chipper organic crunchy granola white people who love small talk like it’s their job, especially on Monday mornings when I hate the act of living.
I will step on the elevator with my rage face on,thus, a natural defense against human contact. However, some friendly woman will not detect it and inevitably will say, “Oh, I love your necklace.” As a result, I have to mumble something nice in return, a feat that is, at 7:21 a.m. on a Monday morning, Olympic in nature.
Good People of Arlington. I love you. You are what makes this city. But. Please, stop talking to me in the elevator. I don’t care what you think the weather will be like outside. I have it both on my phone and in my aural/skin receptors once I open the elevator door. I don’t care about your speculations on the weather for the next week, or about what you did this weekend. If I did, I would ask.
I also don’t want to tell you what I did this weekend or how I am mentally, physically, and otherwise. Who do you think you are, Lavrenti Beria?
Generally, I love human contact. I love people, I love talking to people for a specific purpose, and I love finding out how my friends spent their weekends. But not you, man in the elevator, not you.