. . .met someone so obnoxious from the first minute you’re introduced you’re planning on which body part of yours to gnaw off to hasten your escape?
Yeah, me too.
I was introduced to this guy and you would have thought he was writing my bio. Where where you born? What were your parents names? What schools did you go to? Just useless rapid-fire questions. I don’t know about you, but, when I meet someone the last thing I care about is what school they went to.
Unless they’re my doctor or plumber.
I know it’s hard to believe but I’m trying to be rude but I’m also trying not to answer his questions to specifically. So I can tell he thinks I’m being rude.
“Where were you born?”
“Where’d you grow up?”
“Where do you live?”
But you’d think he was a DA who was trying to break me on the stand because he just kept coming. I know the entire interrogation took less time than it’s taking me to write it but it seemed as if I aged seventy-two hours in that time.
“Why won’t you answer my questions?”
“Massa. . .I am answering your questions.”
“No, I am. Just not the way you want.”
“Can you at least tell me what you do for work?”
With that question I think I found my escape. The moment he asked that question the perfect answer popped into my head. I love when that happens. It’s an answer that will force him to recoil in horror. He’ll have to stop asking questions because, once the answer is out there, it can only get worse for Question Boy.
“I own a string of used porn magazine stores.”
He blinks disbelievingly. I can see him have to process if I really said that; if that had a shred of truth; if, indeed such a business exists. And in that time I made my escape.
All my extremities intact but another human beings soul was cracked. A perfect outcome.