/lit/ - Literature

>>20075476
I exaggerate things I've heard throughout my life. I once knew a lady with an autistic son. He chased her down with a shotgun while his balls had been infected and were leaking puss. Her daughter-in-law tried to kill herself by hanging but the fan broke. ANother time she jumped off a building and crashed on top of a dumpster and stayed there until they found her. I take such weird bits and pieces and I add them to my life so that I can have something to say. Thus, the shotgun story becomes that I and my mother were visiting her and having tea, when he busted out of the basement with a shotgun. Little lies that make me less mundane. I also tell much bigger lies, but that's another story. Come to think of it, I lie and weave stories in some form or another pretty much every single day.

But yeah, I have noticed this phenomenon. Nobody talks anymore. Whenever I go out with a normalfag, they run out of things to talk about 20 minutes in. If I stop talking and going on tangents there's a dead silence. I hear tables all around me and they always talk about the same mundane bullshit of everyday life. Nobody says anything of any significance. Nobody is a storyteller anymore. And that's just sad.