I don't want to talk about hockey, the weather, what are you up to, do you think you'll get a job, how's that soda, have you seen The Walking Dead, that's a cute dog, is that waitress's fingernails real or fake, that couple is awkward, I hate that couple, I hate that friend, do you think she'll ever get married, did you vote on Searchlight, how's tanning, so you're going to Belize, how's that family of yours, I'm so bored, I want to move, I wish I was better at soccer, I need a girlfriend, I can't keep a girlfriend, I wish I could go somewhere, look at those dinks.

I want to talk about feminism; I want to talk about the illegitimacy of the school system; I want to talk about why I feel offended when people call me a Christian, even though I am; I want to talk about idiots at university; I want to talk about the ethics of traveling; I want to scheme up environmentalist solutions; I want to share a poem, or an argument I made in a paper; I want to talk about the disgusting neutrality in Canada; I want to talk about Canadian culture, and what that is; I want to go to a Powwow; I want to tent it; I want to stop wearing makeup without people telling me I look tired; I never want to buy a new article of clothing again; I want to riot; I want you to tell me how to garden.

Lack of friends equals lack of ability to converse with others / lack of others to be able to converse about anything memorable. Are we too scared to talk about something real, or too comfortable to stop being stupid?

Write it on your blog, that privatized thing, where your ratings are at 0, because there's like a password, so that you'll get hired, because as a teacher you're not really supposed to have publicized opinions on anything -- oh, maybe you are, but only if you have opinions on the right sorts of things; just remember the union won't back you up, it only backs up the teachers who don't give a care and who suck at their jobs, so, you know, they can't lose them, and can keep on pumping out idiots who feel that school was a waste of time. 

At least if you write it down, you'll remember that you thought it, and you can come back in a few months or years and read it again, and think to yourself, right, that's who I was then. No one else knew it, but you knew it, that your mind wasn't just a blank slate programmed permenantly on accept.

"Your writing is nothing like your personality," I've been told. And there I am, again, seven years old, at a family reunion, the quietest one there, who would cry when my great fat cousins would make fun of me for being shy, and my sisters would say leave her alone, she isn't shy when she's at home.