I’m a total wank on IM (instant messenger). I can engage in long, meaningless, tangential conversations that lack information and are only a means of jerking my wit off.
Which I cannot do on phone. I hate phones.
I am filled with dread of making conversation when it rings. So much so that I sometimes don’t even pick it up, out of performance anxiety. I wait for the message instead. Indeed, why call when you can text? It may be because it’s urgent.
And it’s this premise that makes me sweat when the phone rings.
But on IM, I’m witty*, I’m edgy, I’m cool, I’m quick on the uptake, I roll with the punches, I’m Elton John in Las Vegas. Until you ask me a real question. Like say, “How are you?”.
It stops Elton’s parade; He doesn’t know how to answer it. It takes away the tinsel and the flattering lights that make Elton a glorious queen and exposes him to be a old, fatty homo who has always had bad eye-sight. A spotlight then digs into Elton’s soul and a voice like God booms the question again, “HOW ARE YOU, ELTON?
Elton backs into a corner, but the light follows him, as he collapses into a huddle in the corner and weeps into his knees.
So I get defensive and think you are the idiot.
Who asks a question like that? That’s small talk. I hate small talk. I like big wank.
I don’t want communication, I want information. I don’t want a deep meaningful relationship, I want a quick, satisfying shag.
* Of course in my head. To the recipient, I’m a sad shunned nerd