I'm not what you'd call a chatty fellow. I'll talk, sure, but I'm not necessarily the verbal initiator in a given situation. I've always been more of a responder... that's why I think I'm better as a "punch-up" kind of writer, rather than a "start-from-scratch" writer. Which is kinda why I started this fucking thing, I guess -- to practice starting from scratch more. Holy fuck, is this post going nowhere.
My point is, I think being isolated in the basement for the last three years is forcing me to become more of an initiator. I'm finding myself talking more... on purpose, and shit. I'll start up conversations with the pharmacist at Kroger ("Is this a crazy spring we're having, or what?!"). I'll actively seek out a salesperson at the True Value to get their opinion on light bulbs ("Hey, what can you tell me about these compact flourescents I've been hearing about?"). And, as I did today, I'll have a ridiculously long conversation about golf, for fuck's sake, with my eye doctor.
I went in for my yearly "how-much-longer-till-I-go-blind" checkup this morning. I sat through the weird-ass stick-your-head-in-this-whirring-machine tests with the oh-my-fuck-you're-so-boring eye nurse who also happens to be the guy at the front desk who answers the phone. Then he stuck me in a room to wait for the real eye doctor. So, the dude comes in and I instantly transform into chatty-fucking-Cathy. I told him all about my job, talked about Chicago, talked about swimming, etc.
Then, remembering that there was a bucket full of personalized golf tees on the front desk, I went all golf on his ass. "Oh, well, I haven't really golfed in a couple of years, but I really love the game. Yeah... the ol' links. I'd love to get back out there and swing the ol' mashie around again. Sure, she's a fickle mistress, she is, but there's just nothing like walking the land with your shaft in your hand... am I right doc?"
It was like I was actively courting this older man to see if he'd invite me out to golf, or something. And he was kinda taking the bait. Luckily, he never actually asked me to hit the links with him. The guy's kind of a tool -- he reminds me of the dickwipes I used to caddy for when I was but a lad, who would tip you 50 cents and wouldn't even buy you a fucking coke at the Weenie-wagon.
But I'm telling ya, get me outta that basement and stick me in a room with some unsuspecting schlub, and I become Baron Von Talkenberg of Chattington. What the shit is happening to me? I'm pissing me off.
I need someone safe I can talk to during the day -- someone who won't talk back and someone I won't regret blathering all kinds of stupid shit at.
Maybe I do need a dog.