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I hate having to do small talk. I'd rather talk about deep subjects. I'd rather talk about meditation, or the world, or the trees or animals, than small, inane, you know, banter.
I am not good at small talk. I will hide in a cupboard to avoid chitty-chat.
I can't abide small talk.
Making small talk about what someone is wearing is just another form of unsolicited feedback.
I meet people, and we can get past small talk pretty quickly if they've read my books. It's a great shortcut.
Don't like small talk, love rainy days.
Maybe it was the home tutoring, or the late start to formal schooling, or an overly cautious and protective upbringing, but in any case, I never became a talkative person. As an adult, I am not always comfortable in social gatherings with small talk. I must have inherited my father's gentle nature.
Just because you can leap off a drum kit doing a scissors kick while hitting a chord, people expect you to be an extrovert socially. But I'm not always comfortable with the idea of small talk at a party.
Intimacies between women often go backwards, beginning in revelations and ending in small talk.
I'm not a good small talker. I'm not into small talk, frankly.