I Hate Small Talk, and Other Rants.

So, with nearly twenty-one years of being a person, I've noticed a trend: In most circumstances among strangers/aquaintences, people are either really smiley and fake-y nice, or they're yelling in your face that you drove 2 MPH too slow, and you're ruining their family picnic. I'll literally talk to a person for two seconds, say "hi, how are you?" then ask to pet their dog, and suddenly I'm the most evil human being in the world.

What do you mean, you want to pet my dog? Are you some kind of kidnapper? How dare you invade my personal space!

I swear, my life is turning into a series of good cop/bad cop.

And sure, people have good days and bad days, but you know what I do when I feel less-than-delightful? I friggin' tell people I don't feel so hot, nothing personal, I just need some space.

Communication. Imagine that.

For the longest time, I just thought that everyone in the world is bipolar, and humans are a really shitty species that take pleasure in saying the meanest things to one another. But that would mean we're just one giant reality TV show, and I simply cannot accept that notion.

But now, I have a theory that it's so encouraged, taken for granted even, to be so outrageously friendly to literally everyone, we smile until our teeth hurt, then before we even know it, we're baring our teeth and growling at the next innocent passerby.

I'm a fairly bubbly person, but if I'm at a party, going "I'm Kira. Yes, I go to college. I'm studying English. Yes, I do realize that doesn't guarantee any jobs. Kira. No, not Cara. Kira. K-I-R-A" a hundred times over, I'm going to get very exhausted very quickly. It's akin to the feeling of sitting on a couch for a year then running a 30 mile marathon.

I know what you're thinking. "But we're not ALL selfish pricks who only want to talk about ourselves! Some of us really care about others."

And this is all true. I quite enjoy talking to my friends, family, and my cat Layla.

But what I can't get on board with, is that at an event where you're schmoozing meeting 20-some new people, you can't possibly care about what each individual is studying, how many siblings they have, and if they like to go jet-skiing or not. I'm sorry, I don't care. You don't care. Why are we pretending we care? Why are we wasting precious book-reading time to learn that this is John, he has three kids, and he likes apples?

But what's so aggravating, is that the older we get, the more we get punished for choosing not to stuff a hundred new names into our brains. Flashback to fourth grade, parent-teacher conferences. My classmates are in the gym, throwing balls at each other until their respective parents retrieve them. I'm in the hallway, writing a play. Teachers are passing by, going "oh what a creative spirit!" (Granted, this could be particular to Quaker school, but a girl can dream).

Now, if I'm sitting in a corner, dripping in social anxiety-induced sweat, I'll get bombarded with "what's wrong? Why so antisocial? Come meet my cousin's hairdresser's distant relative!"

Being that friendly for an extended period of time is like eating cupcakes. One is nice--it's sweet, it's satisfying. But if you keep stuffing your face with cupcakes, you're going to feel progressively sick until you puke, i.e, scream at the person closest to you.

So why can't we just eat our one cupcake? Why must we be excessively nice until it hurts? In the end, it makes everyone miserable, exhausted, and resentful.

On that happy note,
Namaste