“Shannon, are you still talking?”
Yes, yes I am. You see, I haven’t ever stopped. You might not be listening anymore, but that doesn’t phase me. Since childhood, I’ve been dubbed a chatterbox––or as I like to put it, an “avid communicator.” Luckily, every story I tell is equally amazing––and I don’t anticipate that changing anytime soon.
There are many instances where constant chitchat comes in handy: college interviews, arguments, and first dates. I have experienced a lot of them––not many seconds or thirds, but plenty of first dates. Obviously, I have no problems keeping the conversation moving, avoiding any sort of uncomfortable moment. But then again, I’m so sociable that it’s hard for me to make anything awkward.
So it must just be a coincidence that my date never says a word. Or maybe it’s because I constantly cut him off, but I doubt it. He’s probably just shy. So shy, that he doesn’t even have the courage to call me the next day. Or ever.
But I mean, who doesn’t love hearing about the dream I had last night, the BSM speech team, or the time I got attacked by a sea anemone? That’s right, no one. Well, except for one person, I like to call him: Mr. I Hate Good Humor and Happiness. After I tried telling him yet another sensational story, he practically had a conniption.
“Stop!!! I hate all of your stories! They are all terrible, and I never want to hear one again…EVER!”
First off, wow. How rude. Secondly, when I tried to reassure him this story was truly exceptional, he said, “No! You always say that, and they never are, you liar!” Clearly, my particularly irritable peer has some sort of trust issue. I wish he would come and talk to me about it; I’m always here to talk. I mean, listen.
Sure, some people don’t appreciate my stories as much as I do––always giving dirty looks that read, “Oh no, she’s talking again”––but clearly, jealousy is getting the best of them. Besides, no one can crush my overly-enthusiastic and talkative spirit. That’s the end of this story, want to hear another? Of course you do.
