“The only reason we speak is to obtain something we want and yet don’t have.” At least, that’s what it says in my Acting II textbook. That might not be the exact quote, but I’m too lazy to go get the book and double check. Close enough.
So I’ve been giving this assumption some thought. Perhaps this explains why my husband seldom speaks to me when he’s home. He’s already got everything he wants. My mate has his favorite recliner, a TV with surround sound, a million channels to watch, a DVR that records forensics programs starring buxom women with tight fitting shirts that are bloodier than a butcher’s apron, and a cat that, unlike me, can sit there with him and ignore the gore. What’s there to talk about?
I must withdraw some of these privileges. I’m thinking of disabling all of the remote controllers. (His first words will likely be, “Where are the double-A batteries?”) Otherwise, I’ll be forced to terminate the satellite service. But without access to all the talk shows, how will I know if we’re communicating enough?
Maybe the only reason I write is to be heard when no one else is here to listen. J