I am, you see, a naturally garrulous chap.
(For garrulous, you may of course prefer to substitute tedious and/or dry)
Or at least under my own terms, that is. I like nothing more than to sit at the bar and have a chat over the course of a long Saturday afternoon, unless of course the person I’m talking to is someone that I really don’t want to talk to. In which case there’s nothing I hate more than having a chat over a long Saturday afternoon.
But on Saturday (in a moment of drunken reverie) I realised that it’s likely that more often than not I’m probably the person that other people get a bit fed up talking to[1]. But do so anyway because 1. I’m there, and 2. I’m quite a nice person and they don’t want to offend me.
And I feel bad about it. Or at least I do now that I think about it.
But I suppose I can take some comfort that feeling guilt at least means I’m not a psychopath.
(Hey, it’s better than nothing)
Of course this drunken epiphany occurred to me at 11pm, and anything I think at 11pm on a Saturday night is either wrong, preposterous, illegal, preposterously illegal, steeped in dark and bloody thoughts of primal vengeance, or just plain, flat out dumb.
[1] Which isn’t to say they think I’m a horrible person or anything. Just that I’m a bit drunk, repetitive and boring.
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