Join me in the old douche lab, won’t you?
Number of times you can explode some non sequitur diarrhea onto the person sitting next to you at the bar in order to rope them into a conversation they don’t want to have:
1 + x/5. x being the number of syllables in the obligatorily friendly but disintersted grunt the person responds with.
Minutes you may talk about yourself without allowing for a reponse from the person you just pulled into your lonely life:
Number of consecutive yeahs, I knows, or yups you get in response before it means it’s time to hitch that banality wagon to the next person down the bar, because I am not fucking feeling it right now and you would obviously be able to tell that if you weren’t a clueless cat-lady/serial killer dude/ regular every day alcoholic (none taken everyone here) with a wacky story about your day at the office.
It’s a pretty straightforward proposition here. If I want to talk to you, you will for fucking sure know about, vis a vis my mouth making words in the general vicinity of your hearing holes. That’s what people who want to talk do. They talk to you. People who don’t sit here reading like me and probably haven’t made eye contact in ten minutes. Who knows though, maybe telling me you’re sorry to interrupt like five more times might do the trick. Beats sitting there alone.