Well-mannered people consider it cliche to the point of being trite to talk about the weather. Well, I cupcake that notion. If you have something interesting to say about the weather, then go ahead and say it. And if I like you, I will not make fun of you for being such a pathetic conversationalist. So try me. You boor.
Do you ever get text messages from numbers you don't recognize with embarrassingly pseudo-sexual overtones? It has led me to my first awkward moments with people that I cannot detect with any of my five senses. I suppose I must give out my phone number during my prolonged alcholic blackouts, which last hours, days, and weeks. (Once I had one that went a year and a half, but that's not very regular.) "Yo shortie, I'm not shitting around. You need a ride?" Uh, no thank you, sir. I will provide my own transportation. wtf? wtfay? (that's "who tf are you?") wtfayayay (who tf are you are you are you?) wtfayayay ay caramba (who tf are you are you are you are you? Can awkward requests also maybe be awesome?) I don't know, but I doubt it. And I'm not about to find out.
p.s. I watched a little bit of Dancing with the Stars last night. Stop snickering, you know you like it too. I said shut up. I would like to predict that Julianne Hough will repeat her championship (dancing this season with Helio Castroneves), and announce that shortly following the season finale, I will be stealing her away from her current flame and former dancing partner Apolo Anton Ono (who himself stole her away from her fiance, and I think from the Church of LDS-- yeah, that's right, and she has ten siblings) and we are going to get married on top of a mountain. No one is invited, so don't ask. Just butt out, and give my future darling and me our space.
Lastly, if you hit a little kid while driving, would you be more stressed out than if you hit an old person?