So I’m in class this afternoon, half paying attention and wondering what exactly makes Super Mario so damned Super, and I overhear this congested-Demi-Moore crackled voice pipe up from behind me.
She’s trying to make a point about a certain famous author’s “medicinal” abuse of a certain famous, potentially psychotropic, plant of the time. And while her point is interesting, although terribly cliche and expected — considering the Grateful Dead teddy bear patch on her book bag — I can’t help but begin to giggle like an 8-year-old in church when she talks.
“Like, I think he . . . um . . . took all these drugs, y’know . . . and . . . like, I think that explains, y’know . . . why he coveys such a deep sense of, like . . . y’know . . . um . . . meaning in, like, his poetry.”
Oh my God, people! How many times did your high school bus driver circle the block before you figured out which house was your’s? I’m bettin’ at least twice.
You are not valley girls (or boys) and this is not Beverly Hills. This nervous twitch of a socially acceptable stutter needs to bite the bullet harder and faster than Leo Dicaprio’s brain hit the elevator ceiling in The Departed.
I mean good Christ! You can have the greatest freaking thing in the world to say, but all that comes out is a stream of “likes” and “y’knows” and “uhhhs.” Did you learn ANYthing from Judith’s speech classes!? Did you!?
But hell, I shouldn’t complain. I’m not exactly the Lord of Lyric when I’m put on the spot in class. But in all fairness, I don’t sit there and dig my grave a little deeper by spewing out more “likes” than a thiry-something ex-N’SYNC groupie, either.
I’m just cranky. I do get up at 4am every morning for work (and then class). Maybe the lack of sleep has made me easily irritable and slightly stabby. Only time will tell, I suppose.
But like, whatever.