My life seems to carry with it a suggested idea that in someway I seriously care about the clothes that I wear.
And I mean I do, but then again I don’t.
I mean I saw the shirt, loved the shirt and simply threw it in the wash a couple of times.
No big deal.
But apparently, as a result I’m required to have these intellectual conversations about certain bands and genres of music I like…or whatever else people seem to notice on my chest.
Which honestly leads me to believe that most men are band-lovers.
Only I’m pretty sure avoiding eye contact is a lot more comfortable for some, except now I can’t see you desperately staring into my soul.
God, I hate that.
I mean, naturally gazing is one thing but staring into my eyes is another—which has gone way too far.
And now I can see you see me seeing you seeing me.
I mean, how do we look at people!
Mostly, I’m in the middle.
And if things get really awkward, I usually just say,“nice boobs.”
Until next time.
“I hate small talk with a passionate hatred. Why? I suppose because any meeting with another human being is collision for me now.” — May Sarton
