YAP

The Diagnosis

You don't overshare. You share appropriately — it's just that the appropriate amount, in your view, is all of it. Every thought that has ever occurred to you has occurred to be said, out loud, with context, ideally to more than one person. Silence, to you, is an administrative error. A gap to be filled. A listener's way of saying "please continue," which you generously interpret correctly every single time.

You can feel, on some level, when people start tuning out. You can feel the smile freeze. You can feel them reach for their phone. You register this — and then you simply continue, because the story isn't done, and you are the only one who knows where it's going, and if you don't finish it, who will? A deep and unshakable conviction lives in you: the world will be slightly worse if this anecdote goes untold. So you tell it. You tell all of it. You tell it at the wake. You tell it at the job interview. You tell it to the barista.

Here is what nobody tells you: you are not annoying. You are often the most interesting person in the room. The problem is that you are the most interesting person to yourself, and the rest of us are trying to eat our croissants. We love you. We just need a break. We slipped out when you were in the middle of the part about the uncle. You'll notice eventually. Probably. You'll be fine. The story will be finished either way.