Small talk is one of the worst forms of communication to ever exist. Simple questions can send you spiraling, making you wonder why we do this to ourselves, or why we even exist in the first place. Here are 10 seemingly simple questions that make us forget how to breathe.
How Are You?
How am I? Oh, Do you ACTUALLY wanna know? Cuz it looks like you’re having a good day and I don’t wanna bum you out with a friggin’ treatise on how I’m feeling profoundly “no bueno.” Also, I don’t KNOW you! How am I? I feel like the question should be, “Hey, how much do you trust me with your emotional vulnerability?” Oh! So you were looking for a one-word answer? Awesome. I’m “Awesome.” But yeah… how are YOU?
We’re Outside! You Ready to Go?
Well, considering I’m in the throes of trying to pull off some Timothee Chalamet waves with my hair but it keeps coming out like Julian Casablancas, I’d say I’m nowhere close to being ready. Here, let me shoot you a text back that says, “be out in 5” while trying to cram my poor broken body into a pair of skinny jeans that I convince myself I can still wear despite a MASSIVE hole in the crotch and a top button under so much stress it could fire off at any second and wound anyone unlucky enough to be in it’s path.
How’s Work?
Oh super cool of you to bring up a common and totally normal subject like work because you know I’m very much unemployed. Or do you? When was the last time we chatted? Oh, damn. I should call my friends more. Are we friends? Do I know you? Please like me. Fuck! I forgot to cancel my BritBox subscription. But yes, I’m currently “freelancing.”
Oh, So You Freelance?
Please stop asking me follow-up questions or I will throw up all over your sambas.
Do You Know Where *Insert Any Location Including My Own Home* Is?
Funny you should ask that because I absolutely do not know where anything is. I mean, If my phone dies, I literally won’t be able to find my way home (and yes, it IS on two percent). Also, I’m not entirely sure I know my lefts from my rights. Like, I’m PRETTY sure I know, but sometimes I’m bafflingly stupid. But will my complete lack of geographical knowledge stop me from stumbling through vague-ass directions until you say, “ya know what? I think I can figure it out on my own”? Of course not.
Would You Mind Watching My Stuff?
What? No! I mean “Yes,” I do mind! Do you know what’ll happen if you leave your stuff with me? Well, I’ll tell ya: Option 1: I get robbed immediately by a man in a gorilla suit who doesn’t WANT to be a thief but is forced to do so because his stepdad has a turtle-racing gambling addiction. Option 2? You’re hiding a bomb in that New Yorker tote. Those are the only two logical options.
Have You Seen “Dune 2” Yet?
Brother, I haven’t seen “DUNE 1.” And I’ve already made the mistake of telling you that Denis Villeneuve is my favorite director. So now I’m double-fucked. Oh? Have I read the books? Absolutely not. And while we’re at it, I might as well admit that I haven’t read any of “The Lord Of The Rings” despite trying to start them literally a gazillion times. Also, the thought of sitting through anything longer than a 10-second TikTok makes me want to spontaneously combust. And sand scares me. Like a LOT.
Wheapasc Aharsh Foo?
Yeah, I definitely couldn’t hear you over the sound of Death Grips playing in this basement with obnoxiously low ceilings and exposed pipes. And considering I’ve already asked you to repeat the question twice and still couldn’t figure it out, I think I’ll just do a little nervous laugh and go “haha, yeah.”
Are You A Swiftie?
Oh god. Don’t make me answer this. What happens if I say no? Fuck. How do I play this? Is my indecision making me seem anti-swiftie? Even if I do like her, I don’t want to be called that. Oh, and NOW you’re asking me about her private jet usage? Why are you doing this to me? We’re in the middle of a Midwestern Target! PRIME Swiftie territory! I can’t. I can’t do this right now. This is too much pressure. I don’t hate her! I don’t!
Are You Ready to Order?
Nope! But I’m pretty confident that the entire rest of my life hinges on whether I go for the steak au poivre or the duck confit. Time to panic order some chicken tenders and pretend that I like the taste of this negroni. What? You don’t have chicken tenders? FUCK.