Surviving or trying not to be gae?
How are you?
Small talk drives me to the brink of insanity. That existential dread deluxe package makes me waterbirth my embarrassments; they just naturally flow out when some "simple", brain-twister, stumper conundrum of a 'How are ya?' threat hits little old me, wearing my tighty whities as a good fight against the patriarchy. Butttt (and that's a huge but), these questions, like a moisturized heel on a Tuesday night, are where I shine! Luring the innocent inquirer into my little confessional booth is a sweet treat for my diabetic self. So, a "What have you been up to?" menacing remark will be met with: "Forgive me, Father, for there is a placement for dick prints on my pants!" Reply.
Cue the stunned silence. You're confused. Don't know what to do? A moment of agonizing choice: Fall into my everlasting clasp, or flee, covering your tush. But despite your better judgment, your dog like curiosity wins, and you run into my embrace. In no time, we're sprinting towards a sunset tinged marriage, followed by the soul crushing realization that yes, even marriages have small talks. We try to use the usual fixes..therapy, cocaine, fecal play. But the problems still remain; they're just blurry and brown now. As we inevitably, horribly fail at our marriage, with divorce papers looming, I lean across the table, winking and finger wagging suggestively, and ask, "So, hun... how are you, really?" Before you could answer, the lawyer's voice cut through the forced pleasantries: "And who gets custody of the existential crisis?"
Conclusion: Small talk leads to divorce. So... yeah... goodbye.
