What is it with me and small talk? 99 percent of the people I know or have met seem to enjoy it, and I can't even pretend to be interested. Yes, I know, I'm weird and just more than a tad anti-social, but does that mean that it's not normal to even have a remotely intelligent conversation with someone? Does that mean that normal, regular conversation will always consist of how much you like having your picture taken in your spiffy little mobile phone or some remote mundane incident involving someone you know but I don't?
Of course, I also do realize that I'm being really subjective here - who am I to say that small talk isn't intelligent conversation? I mean, maybe I'm just trying to get people to think the way I think and have conversations the way I want them to.
I think I should lighten up.
But I can't.
Well, I guess that means I just have to endure more idle chit chat and try to work on at least displaying a semblance of interest on the topic at hand instead of emulating the walls and furniture.
Guess what I had for dinner. Pork chops? No. Maybe fried chicken or some nice homecooked sinigang? Nope. You give up?
Popcorn and coffee.
I still cannot understand what's so special about gourmet coffee. I like the whipped cream on top and the flavored fudgy thingies they put on it, but coffee's still coffee. What's more, 100 pesos or so for all of that is quite a hefty price to pay, if you ask me.
So there I was, trying to educate myself in the rigors of engaging in pleasantries and confabulations over a generally humdrum spectrum of topics, while sipping coffee that tasted the same as the other flavor I tried the other time. Of course, my wallet took a nasty stab that'll only get better after a couple of day's rest, and coffee shop discussions tend to take quite a while, so it follows that dinner had to take a raincheck. I guess it was a good thing that I managed to eat some popcorn a couple of hours ago.
I went home because it was late, and there was no food at home. Now I sit typing while my stomach growls in protest.
What the hell is the matter with me that I just only heard about the Dumaguete National Writer's Workshop only a few weeks ago? I remember scratching my head and saying to myself, "Meron pala nun?" It was the same when I first read Pablo Neruda in my early college years. Everyone was like, "Hindi mo kilala si Pablo Neruda?" Imagine my shame, when all I could credit myself with was being able to read Cyrano de Bergerac back in high school. The rest of my reading credits were limited to stuff like 'Robinson Crusoe' and 'Treasure Island' - I'm talking about the small squarish versions with illustrations and captions at every other page. I'm sure my mom must have thought they would be delightful things for a 11 year old to read - them having all those nice pictures and everything - when she bought me the exact same books back when I was still in elementary. What my high school was thinking, I cannot imagine. Sigh. That's what you get when you're poor and can only afford public school.
Back to the workshop - I must be moving in the wrong circles to not know about something like that. Of course, whether or not I get accepted into it is another thing entirely.
Oh, now I know what the problem is. I don't move in any circles.