Tell me if this sounds familiar.
You are at a party. Your date is either in the bathroom or imaginary. Somehow, you have been roped into a one-on-one conversation with your host in a remote corner of the front-hall closet.
But instead of facilitating a mutual exchange of ideas or anecdotes, your host is simply verbally relaying every thought that enters their mind, without once pausing to inhale.
Thats right: You have been taken Host-age.
You attempt to silently signal for help by glancing sharply in the direction of other guests. But there are no other guests. They’ve escaped.
You try changing the subject, but your host quickly reroutes their monologue back to “Diners I Have Been To.”
You fake a stroke. They absentmindedly say, “Bless you.”
You fling lit matches at them. They continue rambling as several small fires smolder on their torso.
You recite the entire Saving Private Ryan script, including machine gun sound effects, at the top of your lungs. They’re still talking when you get to the “No animals were harmed during the making of this film” part.
You’ve just about given up when you spot an opening: your self-absorbed host has become temporarily distracted by their reflection in an antique hand mirror.
You run. And you never, ever look back.