Just so blah blah blah

In recent months, I have slipped into habit, into repe­ti­tion. In short, I have become a styl­istic con­ver­sa­tion­al­ist, and I hate myself for it.

Dif­fer­ent people in dif­fer­ent situ­ations call for dif­fer­ent con­ver­sa­tional styles, and I have them all lined up in neat little boxes, ready to go. These days, it would seem that I have resor­ted to only ever talk­ing in exactly the way the other per­son expects of me. A hefty dose of sar­casm here, world-weariness there, attempts at obscure humour here, nervous shy­ness there, and not for­get­ting being ‘a good listener’. (And hon­estly, if I hear the phrase ‘a good listener’ one more time, I won’t be respons­ible for my actions).

It all feels so lack­ing in genu­ine feel­ing, genu­ine emo­tion, genu­ine interest. I feel so false.

(Yes, I’m very well aware that I am tak­ing some­thing that can­not be ana­lysed and ana­lys­ing it to death. But if you hadn’t yet noticed this annoy­ing habit of mine, then I would humbly sug­gest that you’ve not really been pay­ing attention.)

I think I’d like a nor­mal con­ver­sa­tion — a relaxed chat with no sub-text, where my brain isn’t run­ning ahead of itself as it des­per­ately tries to tell my mouth how to respond in the cor­rect man­ner. Turn off the con­stantly whirr­ing mind and take a con­ver­sa­tional risk.

The only prob­lem is that I’m no longer sure I’m cap­able of that neces­sary degree of spon­taneity. I would prob­ably pass out.

Don’t mind me. I didn’t sleep much last night and this even­ing I knocked back two extremely large glasses of wine. Not a good idea.

Liv­ing inside my own head, cocooned in a world of sol­it­ary fantasy, seems a far bet­ter option at times like this.