There is a type of person that I call the Serial Confessor. This particular blight on humanity takes every single opportunity to turn any conversation -- college lecture, time share pitch, grocery checkout line, any situation where even one person can be forced to listen -- into a forum to SHARE HIS OR HER VERY, VERY PERSONAL ISSUES. I am not sure what the genesis of this phenomenon is, although I suspect it is a consequence of television shows such as Maury and Oprah and Springer where narcissistic misery is celebrated, broadcast, and explored to colonoscopy depth. It is normal now to tell complete strangers that you once tried to kill yourself by swallowing huge amounts of bubble gum, gin, and vitamins, your grandfather was a cross-dressing gambler, your brother is in rehab for airplane glue abuse, and you are having trouble with a persistent yeast infection.

Let me say this to you, Serial Confessor: Everyone on the planet loathes you. Shut up forever. No, really. Even the sweet old grandma sitting next to you on the bus, smiling politely and nodding, would strangle the very life out of you if her hands weren’t weakened by crippling arthritis. If she has a cane however, and can deliver even one decent blow, the joyous cheers from the rest of the bus passengers would be so loud that the windows would shatter and most would go deaf, but it would be worth it.

I’m done now.