Friday, June 4, 2010

You Talkin To Me?

Are you talking to me? Who the hell else you talking to? This is Summers, there is no one else here. So, again, are you talking to me?

I mean it is becoming de rigeur and I don't want to get off on another rant here, but seriously, are you talking to me? Come on, what is it about Summers that makes you want to talk to me?

Granted, there's nobody here and after two hours of talking to myself about how Michael Weston and Fiona Glenann should just get it on because I imagine myself as Michael Weston to Mya's well-played Fiona I'm obviously completely bonkers and I am starving for another human being's commentation, there's nothing about my outward appearance that should encourage conversation of any sort.

I'm not looking at you. I'm not listening to you. I turn away when you ask me a question. My arms are crossed. I don't respond. I make fun of the hat you're wearing. Why don't you get it?

I'm the least funniest, least friendliest, least commentating person in the place. Just because Summers is a holding cell for derelicts and dialetcs gives you no right to talk to me.

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