girl talk. 

There's this thing called girl talk that is kind of funny sometimes. You're supposed to lay on your tummy with your chin resting on your hands and swing one or more of your legs back and forth from the knee down, while eating chips and talking about most any teeny-bopper subject (Stephanie Tanner does a pretty good job demonstrating this position.)
My personal favourite is when boys get in on the girl-talking. They pretend to hate it and 9 times out of 10 they refuse to lay on their tummies, but when you strip away all the glitz and glam, they're secretly dying to spill their guts. Metaphorically speaking.

Now Alex and I (just pretend you know her.. or me..) have worked tirelessly for years to spread the good word of girl-talk amongst our male counterparts. It worked for a while. Alex even got long distance phone-calls about girl problems this winter. This evening, however, we were replaced by the rare phenomena of what we have dubbed "girl talk sans girls". It was disgraceful. Guts were spilled by the gallon (both metaphorically and literally) while we sat in the next room, shushing eachother to try to eavesdrop on the syrupy mush of a conversation we tried to pretend we didn't care about. I won't go into details as it was the classic "I love her but she doesn't even care about me... she ditched me for her friends..." countered by the even more classic "whatever man, you're too good for her" and followed by the clinking of glasses and gagging noises.

It felt like Dawson's Creek. Man, when we have girl talks, it's never actually about anything remotely serious or we wouldn't be lying on our tummies.


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