Seriously, whatever it is you are about to tell me. I really don’t care. Not even a little bit. You got your car up to 120? So what. You and your old lady are on the rocks? Yawn. You won an online Texas Hold’em tournament? I could not care less.
Ninety-five percent of everything I am told through out each day, I have absolutely no emotional reaction to. I evidently should. The way people tell me stories, it sounds like I should care. They make dramatic faces and use inflections in there voices to convey how important their message is. But I’m sorry. No matter how convincing your story-telling skills are, I simply can’t be moved by the fact that your grandmother fell and bruised her hip. Is that bad? I can’t help it. My mind doesn’t allow me to feel sorry for people I don’t know who are slightly injured.
Cab drivers want to tell me about their day. Co-workers want to tell me about last night. Girls want to tell me about their boyfriends. No thanks. No thanks. No thanks. If it’s not about me, or doesn’t somehow affect me, chances are your talking and I’m not listening. I’ve mastered the timing of “uh-huh’s”, know exactly when to ask “really?” when the person is expecting it, and absolutely sell the shit out of my fake laugh. But I have retained nothing you just told me.
But most importantly, if you are going to strike up some meaningless banter with me, just do me a favor and don’t tell me about your job. I don’t care about my job, how in the world can I care about yours. “Ted was soooo hung-over today.” Fuck Ted. Unless you are a rapper, an NFL quarterback or a bookie I don’t want to hear three seconds about how you make a living.
I’ll listen to a stripper talk about her day at the office too. They know how to tell a good story.
