Yack, yack, yacking. How can one man be so dense that he can’t see that my eyes are glazed, my mind, now nearly full of stuff that I may never need ...as begun to turn to mush. I have just become a receptacle for his useless, endless chatter. I am so far beyond caring what is streamed into head that I now make no effort to take in and process all of the facts that are being introduced against my will into my subconscious and conscious mind. If I sit within talking distance then I quickly become. Gosh this girl can talk: what about I am not completely sure because I am little more than a nodding dog drowning in the deluge of her chatter. Head and eyes acknowledging her words as my mouth provides the requisite “Oh’s” and “I know’s” and “Oh yes’s” that her monologue requires and all the time my foot rotates beneath the table top and my insistent and perfectly pedicured toes tappity tap at their cruel yet utterly gorgeous confines. At least the rampant electrons in my brain have shuddered. More

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