That’s okay, anybody who’s anybody is weird. It’s the “normal” ones who aren’t worth knowing and should all be put into camps, but I digress. Anyway, she seems to enjoy talking about herself (and yes, everybody enjoys talking about themselves, and I’d like to stop digressing or I’ll never finish this thing), but in strange, semi-personal, oversharing ways, such as talking about bad experiences she’s had with other jobs and arguments she’s had with people I will never know. Today, she mentioned that she hates it when people poke her in the ribs. “It’s one of my pet peeves.”
“Do people poke you in the ribs a lot?” I asked, because it certainly doesn’t happen to me (although my uncle is fond of grabbing my buttocks during Sunday dinners, so I can relate).
“Yeah, sometimes. My ex-brother-in-law used to do it all the time. And sometimes guys at work do it.” I nodded and continued my work. “See,” she continued, “I’m really, really ticklish. So I hate it when somebody does that.”
“Oh,” said I.
“Also, it kind of hurts. Not a lot, but just enough that it bothers me.” I could not see why she was explaining in such detail, but ah well.
“Alright,” I said, “I promise I won’t poke you in the ribs.”
“That’s good, because I’d probably hit you if you did.”
Okay, that’s not the end. I thought it was, but she came up to me a few minutes later and said, “Sometimes I’ll get a side-ache, mostly because I’ve drank something that has milk in it.”