In the vein of being anti-social, I had to take a continuing education class today that, while slightly less painful than others I’ve had to take, was still painful nonetheless if only due to the fact that it was completely pointless to what I do in my job. Yes, it was vaguely related to my job but it had to do with specifics that are irrelevant to me. So I sat there, nodded my head, and pretended I was listening for eight hours, counting down the time until I had to brave rush hour traffic in downtown Phoenix so I could get home, which is clean across the valley.
I didn’t really talk to any of my classmates. I made a few comments to the teacher throughout the class just to give the general impression that I was paying attention, but I pretty much kept to myself and internally bemoaned one woman who, whenever I stood up, always seemed to be in the way and oblivious to the world around her. Every damn time. So no surprise when lunch came around I pulled out my book (OUT OF THE DARKNESS by Ashley Hope Perez is the book of the moment) and stuck my nose in it for 45 minutes.
What I’ve learned is that people value reading . . . not at all. Not a damn bit. It is so inconsequential that you might as well be staring out a window cross-eyed with your thumb up your ass for all that reading means. Reading means nothing. So when reading means nothing to people they think nothing of just striking up a conversation with you as if you were doing nothing but staring off into space. This was the reason why I stopped eating lunch in my office lunch room and kept to eating lunch at my desk. People constantly tried to have conversations with me while I was reading. And the thing is if I lost my shit on them I’d be the asshole. Because I should be okay with being interrupted. While reading. Because reading is nothing. Some people were even obtuse to the point where when I gave curt, monosyllabic answers or just merely grunted at them THEY STILL KEPT TALKING. What part of this situation looks like an invitation to converse with me, hmm?
So I’m eating lunch and I’m sitting at the end of a long table with my face turned toward a wall and pointed down into a book and absently shoving pizza into my head. And the turd next to me starts asking me questions. No excuse me. No pardon me. No precursor of any kind. Just jumped right in as if I were doing . . . you got it . . . nothing. He said many words. I said three and made some vague sounds without even making eye contact. Beyond that, I didn’t even turn my head in his direction. After a few one-sided sentences on his part he got the hint, thank god.
Seriously, people of the world. Fuck off. If someone has their nose in a book it is not an invitation to strike up a conversation. I’m not going to tell you what I’m reading (a book, shitneck), I’m not going to tell you what it’s about (things and stuff), and I’m not actually going to engage you back. If you have two brain cells left to rub together you’ll pick up on the fact that you just made a faux pas. Reading is not nothing. It is not a vacant activity that people do to waste time until something better comes along in the form of asinine small talk. It is the battery to my life force that must be replenished during the gaps in my life. Unless you actually have some value-added comment about the title I’m holding in my hands, or the author, or you have recommendations if I like what I’m reading, or recommendations if I’m hating it, I don’t want to fucking talk to you. I am not merely waiting patiently for you to come into my life to relieve my boredom with the sound of your voice. I understand I’m more than likely just an introverted weirdo that, in the grander scheme of society, is abnormal regarding social interaction but people just can leave well enough alone.
Keep interrupting me while I’m reading and I will slay you with 1,000 paper cuts wielded from the pages betwixt my fingers.