Oversharing. Just don’t do it. Unless you’re my close friend, I don’t need to know that your smoothie gave you the runs all day. I don’t want to try to fake concern while you are cleaning my teeth. With your hands. Gloves or not, I don’t care to be reminded that my dental hygienist was recently wiping their butt. Especially when it involved diarrhea. Just no. NO.
I was just at the grocery store and the cashier was going through the whole rigamarole of small talk: “How’s your week going? Anything fun planned for this weekend? What are ya eating for dinner tonight? You gonna eat these Spaghettios?” Just say ‘hello’, alright? I hate awkward small talk.
I swear this chick only wanted to ask me how my day was so that she could unload on me. When I asked her how her day was, she said, “I started dry heaving last night”.
Full fucking stop.
I wanted to just bail, to leave my Spaghettios and moscato and block of cheese right fucking there.
Do not touch things that will be going in or around my mouth while telling me about you dry heaving. DO NOT.
Why? Just why?
I think she continued barfing up her whole horrible story about how long she puked and what color it was, but I just tuned it out, hoping the ground would swallow me whole.
Newsflash for anyone not aware: NO ONE wants to hear details about your puking. Not no one.
Now, when it comes to my close friends, it’s different. Much, much different. I don’t care if you tell me about how your quinoa hasn’t digested and it keeps making reappearances, or how when you farted in your car, yesterday, you had to pull over and evacuate. No. I love these stories. It’s incredibly amusing to laugh at my friend’s misfortunes.
It’s just different.
I also hate when cashiers, or just crazy people, sitting by you in the DMV, confuse you for their therapist. I have enough stress and drama in my own life, I don’t need to know how Bubba screwed your cousin Tammy Lynn at your wedding reception at Dave & Buster’s. What are normal-leave-me-alone people supposed to say to that? When I have to respond, I usually deer-in-headlights- sputter, “Oh, my phone is ringing” and then run for the hills.
People, randoms don’t care as much as you delusionally think they do, hate to break it to you. If your response to, “How are you?” involves a story about bowel movements and/or incest, save it, mmkay?