All I Want To Do Is Not Talk (apologies to BRMC).

I hate talking.

I try to talk as little as possible. I abhor the phone and I avoid gatherings. I despise opening my mouth. At times, many times, depending on situations, I can’t be sure what exactly I will say. I have no control over my words. It’s as if my mind is way behind (or way ahead of) my voice, my larynx, my fucking lips. It’s frustrating.

I’m the worst public speaker in the world. I would put money on this. All my money. All of it, every last mute penny.

I find it easier to write everything out.

I try to say “A” and “B,” according to what my brain formulated, but by the time the verbiage is transacted and processed and spewed out my mouth, it sounds like “A” turned to “C” before morphing into a muttered and soiled hybrid of “B” and “a,” a cacophonous mess that makes no sense.

I really despise being forced to express myself verbally. I find it frightening and formidable and I, who takes great pains to appear halfway intelligent, am stupefied when my utterances betray the disjointed ramblings of a complete short-bused moron.

I hate talking with every ounce of my soul!

I can never judge or plan what I words flee me like an arsonist flees a house when it catches fire. Spoken words are my enemy of frustration.

What I could write on paper, my flowery silent thoughts, turn to mush when given sound. My tongue, molded, uncooperative, shapes meandering gibberish. Talking drains me.

Even when I have something to say, talking drains me. I don’t like to squander my energy speaking. It’s dumb. Who needs phones, who needs meetings, who needs human companionship?

Everything we do involves talking talking talking talking, incessant fucking talking. We do nothing but chatter like nervous, inane little monkeys. We have little to say, but who cares, we love to talk.

I was interviewed about 2 years ago, thanks to ill-advised attention I received because of this blog. The interview was held via Skype. It was the worst disaster ever in this history of mankind. I sounded confused, disorganized, unfocused. After the interview wrapped, I wanted to pull my tongue out and set it on fire for its grave betrayal of my good name. To this day, I have never listened to that interview. I just cannot. I cannot fathom listening to myself talk. In fact, I sorta broke my word by taking the link down from my site only a month or so after the interview. Broken promises are born of mute frustration.

Talking is alien to me, much as murder would be to all normal people. I do it poorly. It spears my lucidity.

I hate talking.

Why do people enjoy it so much? I can’t express smoothly in verbal fashion. Meetings at work leave me speechless and I defer to emails to truly express myself to my utmost ability.

There are maybe 3 or 4 people in the world I feel comfortable speaking to. In certain situations, I actually can be eloquent. In such rare moments, everything I think is flawlessly converted to spoken words with confidence, certainty and absolute assertion.

It’s rare, like the dodo bird.

All I ever want to do is not talk.