As far as I know, no anecdote's a solution
By Chelsea Martin
I woke up and sat up in bed and looked at Jamie, who was sitting up in her bed four feet away from mine with cell-phone glow on her face. I turned the light on. I wished that text-messaging was more universally annoying so that I could make her feel bad for being in such close proximity to me at a time when neither of us had anywhere else to go.
"What's going on with you and Liam?" she said.
"Well, I'll probably never see him again," I said.
"What? Why? Where'd he go?"
"Oh, did you say What's going on with you and Liam ? I thought you said something else. Nevermind."
Jamie looked at me and then looked away from me and then looked at me again and I started to feel annoyed and tried not to. I tried to ignore the possibility of being talked to and started thinking about the effects that the perpetual possibility of being talked to had on my emotional stability.
"I feel like I haven't talked to you at all this week," Jamie said.
"The other day while I was making out I got a bloody nose," I said. Part of my method for dispelling unwanted conversationalists was to respond to people quickly with dead end anecdotes about myself.
"Wow. That's an omen."
"It is? That's bad, right?"
"It could be a good omen. Did it seem like a good omen?"
"I thought it was cool."
"Wait, did you say making out ?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. That's what I thought."