Gift of Gab

I’m sorry, it’s just my tendency. I have a habit of getting carried away.

You say I have problems listening, but you’re wrong, it’s just that I can’t hear you over the sound of my own voice. If you wouldn’t always insist on talking when I’m talking, we could hear each other. I kid, of course, still…

You say I cut you off, but we both know, I just make timely edits. You really should be thanking me, not everybody has a fisherman like me to to pull in their  loquaciousness. Sometimes less is more.

And you know I’m a rabid social creature. It’s in my blood, like malaria or something. You’ve met my mother, she has a mouth that’s a perpetual motion machine. Me too. I absolutely quiver with the gift of gab.

Especially when I’m drunk… there’s  no stopping the eloquence that billows out of the elixir-opened chambers, if I may toll my own bell… it’s like an endless salad bar of storytelling and wordplay… a giant, woozy wassail… whoo-wee.

My speech has no manners. That’s a good one, I’ve got to remember that one.

But you want your turn, I get it, it’s natural. I really do like what you tell me, you’re a fine conversationalist. I will listen to you more. I just have one more thing to say about this cocktail and how poorly the bartender muddled the mint…

What’s that?

Oh, right. Yes, carry on…


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