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Small Talk

In the lunch room at work I hear snippets of conversations about a cat’s special diet, an oil change for the Honda, and a trip to Ikea to purchase a trivet.

And on it goes. As if anyone cares. But then I look around and see that others do care, as indicated by their smiles and nods. They even ask questions.

“What color was the trivet? Was it silicone?”

“No, it’s made of cork.”

“Oh, yes, I really like those.”

“But I did get some silicone oven mitts. They were green.”

“Nice! Lime green?”

“No, I’d say more of a grass green.”

Then I picture myself standing and saying to anyone who will listen, “You’re going to die one day. No matter how much you talk about dumb shit, you’re going to die, and endless chatter about the cheese ball you sampled at Costco won’t change that.”

I feel better just thinking about saying those words. I also feel better knowing I’m going to die one day.

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