I didn’t realise until today, but these posts only have to be 200 words, not 400. Fuck.
Right. So, if I’m sitting quietly by myself reading a book on a hostel balcony somewhere, head down and away from any sort of communal hostel activity, does this say to you, “Please come over and tell me your deepest fears, your hopes and dreams and your darkest secrets “?
No, it fucking doesn’t. I don’t know you from a bar of soap and I couldn’t give a fuck that your aunty is recovering from brain cancer. But does that stop you from lumbering over and asking me some asinine question to interrupt my serenity?
“Hey, whatcha reading there buddy?”
“Mein Kampf. Fuck off.”
Seriously though, I’ve gotten to a point where I’ve got enough friends. I don’t want to waste my time collecting more, especially not barefoot cunts in some far-flung pitiful hovel on the other side of the world. I won’t tell you anything about me and I don’t want to know a single thing about you. Not even your name. All I want to know is when you’ll leave, and my preference is for you to leave right now.
Of course, rudely interrupting me was only step one of your process, wasn’t it? Now you’re going to try and gently shift the conversation to something you want to preach about, like your bullshit political views or how many chicks you banged in Slovenia last month. What you’ve neglected to understand is that the only story involving you that I’d ever want to hear is the one where the punchline is you being decapitated in a freak Vespa accident in Palermo, you cunt.
/end (holiday) communication