Don’t talk to me about the weather,
trivial, pointless, utterly disinteresting weather.
How disgustingly impersonal, how socially dead.
Instead
Tell me what traumatized you as a child.
I’ve always hated moms that manage sports teams—
stop telling me to stop eating all the oranges, Sandra.
Explain how you and your best friend became best friends.
My best friend and I were both hating on swimming,
nine years later we teach it together because we’re hypocrites.
Let’s talk about how fucked up it is to be a woman.
Do your boobs look like udders without a bra too?
I haven’t taken my birth control in weeks. I’ve given up.
Or ask me about the scar on my right index finger.
Maybe then you’d know why I don’t stand on swings,
or really put myself out there as much anymore.
Don’t talk to me about the weather.
Tell me the worst thing you’ve kept from your family.
In high school, I used to put apps on calculators for my friends to help them cheat.
I appreciate you accepting that as my answer to that question by the way.
We can talk about embarrassing moments. You can open up.
I have a picture of eight-year-old chubby me in a cropped eagle costume.
Don’t talk to me about the weather.
Tell me your favourite word.
Bookkeeping,
because of the two o’s, k’s and e’s.
Explain an inside joke to me.
Penis related?
Thank God.
You are incredibly interesting.
And if you talk to me about the weather, I will miss out on you.