WHY do you think that I want to hear, in detail, the plot of every book you’re reading? I swear, when you get going I want to start ripping my hair out strand by strand!! And when you start on one of those interminable books in that goes-on-forever series, I just want to SCREEEEEEEAM! No, I don’t fucking care what happens in chapter fourthousandninetysix! Do you hear me? I–DON’T–FUCKING–CARE!! And when we’re in the car together I try to keep the conversation going just so you won’t start the incessant yammering about a book. It’s even worse in the car when you REALLY get going, and you’re so into the plot that you miss the turn. Don’t you notice my eyes glazing over? Don’t you notice the strand of drool hanging from the corner of my mouth as I start to rhythmically bang my head against the window? Don’t you notice my hand convulsively gripping the door handle? I’m thinking, "Gee, if this person slows down enough maybe I can jump out and run away and then I’ll NEVER HAVE TO HEAR ABOUT ANOTHER BOOK!!!
AND ANOTHER THING: When I call you, I call to TALK to you! Not to hear you give me a play-by-play of all the cute things that your pets are doing! I DON’T CARE if they’re grooming each other! I didn’t call long distance to listen to you coo to your pets! And when I call, please have the fucking courtesy to turn off the damned tv, or leave the room where the tv is. You know why? Because I don’t want to hear you tell me what’s going on on the tv. I can turn on my OWN tv and watch what you’re watching, you don’t need to give me a description. I think it is the HEIGHT of rudeness to watch tv when you’re on the phone. If you’re going to do that, turn the sound off so that I at least have the illusion that you’re paying attention to me. Want to know another reason why I rarely call? Because I’m sick and bloody tired of hearing about the internet porn that you write. And the internet porn that you read. And the internet porn that you write. And the newest internet porn that you’ve started. I think it’s great that you’re writing again. But come on! I don’t want to hear about the intimate, er, details of your character’s experiences. And I want to hear about some ones else’s characters even less!
Whatever happened to talking? Talking about what’s going on in your life, what you’re thinking and feeling, not what’s going on in some fictional world. When I call, I want to hear about YOU, not some story you’re writing or reading. When we talk, I want to talk, not just sit there and listen to you ramble on about the latest book you’re reading. Yes, I read books to escape, and I can get really into them too. But when we’re together I want us to share what’s going on in our lives, our real lives.
Bleah. I’ve run out of steam. Time to go make some coffee…
::shuffles off to kitchen, scratching sleep-rumpled hair::
I also hate it when you call someone with a young kid, and they spend the entire time going, “Jason wants to say hi to you. Come on, Jason. Say hi. Jason! This is mommy’s friend; say hi to her. Say hi, Jason. Say hi. Come on, say hi.” God, I hate that.
Oh forget that…how 'bout when you call them and get their MACHINE and there’s them and their 2 year old who can hardly talk going:
"
“hel…lo?”
“(whispered by adult) WE CAN’T COME TO THE PHONE RIGHT NOW”
“(painstakingly slow) Be can cumto babome minow!”
“(whispered outrageously loudly) PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE”
“(torture) Bee menow meddage!”
“(outrageous whisper) BYEEEE~”
“(screeching) BYEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” (uncontrolable giggling that turns your stomach.)
I haven’t called my own brother in years for this very reason.
Oh, man! Miller, you nailed it on the head for me! I gave up on that series a couple of years ago!! Talk about dragging it out for freaking EVER! Man!!!
I spent a month doing telephone surveys for the hospital, and as you might imagine I heard a lot of answering machine messages. I am firmly convinced that there is a special place in hell for people who have their small children record a message. I prefer even the robot voice “Please. Leave. A. Mess. Age.” ones that come as the default on many answering machines now.
My mom reads probably about 7 or 8 books a week. Somehow, everything that happens in real life reminds her of the plot in one of her books. She always tells me every single thing that happens. Also, when she reads, a lot of the time she laughs out loud. Then, she has to tell me why she laughed out loud. Mommmmmm: I don’t care about your books. Really, I don’t.
Miller, how’d you guess? I read the first book in that series, and began the second one. My interest fizzled out, though, and I never went back to it. My question is, HOW can this guy keep writing this story? Isn’t it over yet? And each of the books are so frelling long!
Mercutio, unfortunately the people I was referring to are adults. I think I’d probably have a more interesting conversation with a 4-year-old, sometimes!
