To quote The Eagles . . .

"It's like going to confession/every time I hear you speak"

You may not be aware of this, but it's not necessary for you to verbalize every thought in your head. Every thought and every feeling you have is blurted out for all to hear. Why do you do that?

Granted, I work in the tech industry, which isn't exactly known for it's sparkling personalities . . . but even card-carrying members of the Sci-Fi Channel fan club have the ability to tone it down and get on with their lives after a while. Not you. You have no concept of an internal filter. You never take a moment to pause, and decide if what you're thinking really needs to be said.

Your lazy husband? Don't care. Your video-game addicted feral children? Don't care. An extensive history of your favorite types of shampoo? Don't care.

There's no mistaking that we need rational and intelligent discussion during these uncertain times, but you fall into neither one of those categories. Then you use the whiny, catch-all excuse of the socially inept, by proclaiming that people who get tired of your yammering are "conservative". Hey, it has nothing to do with political beliefs . . . but it has everything to do with your gossipy, duplicitous, shrill, and ignorant communication style.

Give it a rest already. Please.

I prefer bumper cars at the amusement park

Why do you follow me so closely on the freeway? You're tailgating me so closely that I can't see your front bumper. I'm in the far right lane . . . the "slow lane", and I'm doing 70 in a 55. That means that I can be ticketed, but I'm still not driving fast enough for you.

You act like you're actually trying to push me off the road. I guess you're trying to overcompensate for your insecurities by being big and bad on the road . . . or, maybe you're late for work. Maybe you need to get out of bed a few minutes earlier. Not my fault that you're too lazy to get going in the morning.

A few minutes later, someone pulls out in front of me, drives a block, and then turns without using their signal. I'm sorry. I didn't realize that I had mistakenly driven onto your private highway.

Oddly enough, your bumper sticker says "Declare peace". Too bad that you've chosen to declare war on your fellow motorists.

In awe of the Assistant Manager

I go to the local convenience store . . . gasoline, lottery ticket . . . the usual.

The guy behind the counter:

"Hey there, chief . . . anything else?"

Wow. "Chief". I didn't realize that I had been promoted to the head of a Native American tribe. Quite an honor. Thank you.

Then again, I suppose it beats being called "bud".

Do I even know you? Does the prestigious title of Assistant Manager at a convenience store give you so much power that you feel the need to patronize your customers?

I realize that I'm a big fan of the Washington Redskins, but I'm not sure that makes me a "chief".

Who you gonna call . . . door slammers!

I don't understand the logic of why people have to slam the door, especially in an apartment complex with interior hallways.

It's not like you're battling a 50 MPH wind from outdoors. All that you have to do is unlock your door, walk inside, and then simply close your door. Complex move, but give it a try.

Why the slamming? Are you being chased into your apartment by a grizzly bear? You slam your door so loudly that my light fixtures shake. I dunno . . . maybe there are tryouts for an Olympic door slamming team. If that's the case, I expect to see you on the medal stand.