It’s our seventh time seeing each other but her first time at the apartment and she’s sitting at the foot of the bed, we’re talking, and once we’re halfway through the fancy bottle of wine my roommate got me for Christmas she tells me (I forget the context) that “between the two of us, you’re definitely the talker.”
She appears to be fine with this but I, for some reason, am not.
To be told you’re a big talker isn’t the same as being told you’re a bad listener, but it’s a little close for comfort. Makes me wanna police my talking, limit it, inhibit these sprawling stories I seem to always be telling, longwinded accounts of something I read or watched.
I thought talking to the blog so much would make me less of a windbag in person, like I’d’ve already drained the pus onto a page, but given what I’ve heard from three people in just the past coupla weeks it appears to’ve had the opposite effect.
Just can’t shut the fuck up.