Laryngitis is my Kryptonite

I talk a lot. Apparently I talk more than your average bear, Booboo, because mother fuckers love to tell me I talk too much. Especially those mo-fos that get a taste of my wrath in a spoken word spar & refuse to admit defeat. Instead of engaging in discussion, these jack-offs discount whatever point I was making by calling attention to the fact that I’m speaking at all. I hate those pricks. But, they aren’t the only ones that call me out for being a Chatty Cathy. My father is convinced that I never shut the fuck up. When the orthodontist told him that I needed molars removed because my mouth was too small, he exclaimed “BULLSHIT! We’re talking about the same girl here?”, then Pops & the Ortho enjoyed a series of Big Mouth = Talk Too Much jokes at my expense. Ha ha, dickheads, didn’t see that one coming. My quieter pals pass their thoughts on to me for pubic announcement, sort of like a living & breathing P.A. system for the painfully shy. They make requests like “Ask him to play this song” or “Go see if that girl is his girlfriend” or “You outta’ tell that bitch to shut the fuck up!”. I am always the one that buddies introduce as “my political friend”, as if warning others that I maybe compelled to jump on a soap box & start spouting my liberal ideology like a left-wing novelty act should the subject of politics come up. Caution: This Woman Speaks On It! Don’t Get Her Started! More often than not, I’m chastised for talking too much, even though I’m much more entertained by debate than I am by giving speeches.I am rarely applauded for my ability to carry on a conversation, but I am often called out for dominating a discussion. Like it’s a bad thing that I know shit, that I bother to form opinions on topics, or that I’m comfortable expressing my viewpoint! I’m not a know-it-all or a bad listener, nor am I a shrinking violet-wallflower type. But, for better or for worse, I talk a lot.   

Sometimes I have an agenda when I speak; other times I just spout off on a stream of consciousness hoping it will lead to a conclusion that justifies my rant. Often, I speak for speaking’s sake, just to give the vocal chords a workout, y’know? I talk a lot in some social settings so as to avoid blending in with the scenery & disappearing all together. I talk to fill the space of an awkward silence or to kick-start conversation when folks have fallen into a stoned stupor. I talk to unload the psychological burden I accumulate in this life and to assure others that they are not that crazy or alone. Sometimes I talk in small child-like tones, sometimes my “inner sista” surfaces and exposes my ghetto roots. Always, my speech is peppered with sarcasm, regional slang, sound effects, and curse words. I especially love compound cuss words and the versatility of the word “bitch”! I avoid using racial slurs because they make me uncomfortable, but I have no qualms instigating class warfare with my commentary. At one time or another, I’ve sounded like a fucking idiot, a ditz, a nerd, a blowhard, and a cold-hearted bitch. I suspect I’ll have opportunities in the future to do so again. I’ve totally gotten busted talking to myself, but I don’t understand people that honestly talk to their pets or plants… or infants. I’m very vocal in bed, at sporting events, when drunk or nervous. I’m not a Jabber Jaw at the movie theatre, in the library, or when I first meet a Scottie-Too-Hottie. I talk mad shit, I pick fights to amuse myself, and I am not likely to excuse blatant misogyny by remaining silent. I speak on what I know, I appreciate the word play found in hip-hop and punk rock, and I abuse the shit out of my First Amendment right to freedom of speech. So, yeah, I suppose I talk a lot.

And what of it?   


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