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I don’t ask people how their day was because I just don’t care. I tend to ask people bigger questions, questions that will tell me more about who they are rather than what they are doing. So, their view of the universe is much more interesting to me than their view of the day. I can talk for hours with someone if I am having out of this world conversation where we are not the topic, just the orators. Conversations about ideas, theories or dreams are, in my opinion, much more entertaining and, really, practice for that hypothetical dinner party everyone has planned at the back of their mind, when the greatest minds in history meet in your kitchen. Is, “How was your day?”, really, the first thing anyone is going to ask Jesus when he sits down for macaroni and cheese?

I could not tell you the favorite color of any of my ex-boyfriends. I could not tell you how they drank their coffee. I know their last name purely by chance. But I could write books about their attitudes, their ideas, their theories and their dreams. Listening to their opinions about the world, their knowledge of history and their philosophies of life stimulated me more than anything else in the relationship. Well, that isn’t fair.
Almost more than anything else.
Other boys, those ones used only for physical stimulation, may as well not have had a last name. Maybe they didn’t. I have no idea. Because I didn’t ask. Because I didn’t care. Most of my Magic List would be forgiven for thinking that I am a mute. Or, you know, a massive bitch.
“Shhh. You’re wrecking it,” is, if I am objective, my pick-up line.

The Prettiest Boy In The World [official name] and I set a record when we had a Skype conversation for over seven hours. Over four hundred and twenty minutes where we discussed our attitudes, our ideas, our theories and our dreams, with Hanging Up being the only climax possible. When I moved to L.A, our relationship became a place where conversations came to thrive. Hours were spent writing emails, reading emails and talking into little webcams until one of us, eventually, pressed Hang Up to return to whatever it is we were doing that day. I have no idea. I never asked.
Five hour conversations between him in Paris, the City of Lights and me, in Los Angeles, the City of Angels, last for the duration of the time it takes the sun to move across the North Atlantic Ocean and, after six months, no topic has been exhausted, untouched or questioned. Other relationships, sex and sarcastic racism are just some of the things that we fill our day talking about. There is no other person I speak to as much and after collective hours, spread across the earth, I have learned a lot about his thoughts on the universe and, ironically, now somewhat care about how is day was.

I started to hypothesize what I would do if I was to be in His physical presence, where verbal communication was no longer the only foundation for which our relationship had to thrive on.
“Shhh. We’re wrecking it,” is, if I am objective, probably the first thing we would say to each other.
“I think we have made our yearly quota of words,” I told him. “In the event that you are ever in my beanbag, know that when I say, ‘Shut Up’, I will mean it in the most endearing of ways.”
Not having to speak would change the nature of our relationship. For one thing, walking out the door just takes so much more effort than Hanging Up. You have to get up out of the beanbag, find your keys, make sure you have your phone, cigarettes and money. Who can be bothered? Maybe that is why people stay together forever? That is the best reason for marriage I can think of.

It is interesting what happens when there is no physical distraction around, where thoughts have to be expressed verbally, when there is no way that actions will speak louder than words. It is, if I am objective, the foundation of so few relationships in the world, as what we do during the day often gets in the way of deeper conversation and distracts us from asking about the things that aren’t even there. I started to wonder if there is ever a time when you don’t need to speak to someone to find who they are, if watching someone live their day can give you a greater insight to a person.
There are over six billion people on earth. If one is lucky, they discover a connection to about five of them. If they are really lucky, they fall in true love with about three of them. And if they are magic, they fuck a large percentage of them. The ability to communicate defies language barriers, religious affiliations and real racism.

With so few people who care about your ideas, theories and dreams, it makes sense to dedicate hours to the ones who do. Sometimes I wonder if people would be happier if they stopped asking questions they don’t care about to people they don’t care about. I think that they may be. Of course, I could be wrong. It is just my opinion. My view. All I know is that speaking is the only pick-up line with any meaning, to find out something you do care about.