Not everybody is interested in everything.
Everyone's got their own particular sphere and multi-limbed web of general interests.
When one goes on about a topic that another finds uninteresting, then their listener is bound to get bored, (and boredom is the precursor to annoyance.)

This is where tact comes in. Tactfulness is the ability to read boredom (as well as uneasiness, embarrassment, and any other general anxiety-inducing feelings) in your listener. Someone with tact knows when to change the subject and/or shut up altogether. It's a subtlety.

However, the more passionate one feels about a subject, the harder it is for them to show tact when talking about it.

This explains why nerds and drunks get such a bad rap for being annoying. (God forbid, a drunken nerd . . . )
Because they feel so passionately about the topics that they're interested in that they'll often talk at great length about them without any regard for their audiences' boredom. (And prolonged boredom invariably leads to annoyance.)

This is why the nerdiest of nerds is often regarded as a god amongst their peers (with "peers" in this sense really just meaning people of similar interests.) Because they have such vast knowledge of such a particular subject (which is often of very little interest to most Others. ("Others" in this sense meaning people who are outside of this particular circle of peers.))

The same may or may not be true for drunks.
(Although, there's something to be said about both of them being the most likely to have conversations with no one but themselves.)

This also explains general aloofness (a.k.a. coolness, i.e. "being cool.")
The types who seem so disinterested in everything that people often become interested in them if for no other reason than to simply find out what it is that they actually do find interesting.

This is why cool people tend to be so popular. Everyone trying their hand at gaining their attention by drawing it to this thing or that thing, with a weird need of validation being thinly-veiled beneath it.
(This might also explain why "cool" people tend to be such *******; often dismissing these constant attempts to grab their attention as either pathetic and/or depressing.)

Then, of course, there are the word-smiths. The Salesmen.
Those who fancy themselves so intelligent as to be able to twist what their audience would otherwise find disinteresting into something that they can't live without,
often through some combination of communication manipulation and nonverbal tricks.

But just don't listen to them.

'Don't you ever worry,' she asked,
'about being written off as
a poor man's Bukowski?'

I answer, quite honestly
for a pretentious, wannabe poet:
'I'd be happy being
anyone's
Bukowski.'

Which was a cute line, I thought,
but she still
didn't **** me.

Maybe I was
someone's
Bukowski, but I
definitely wasn't
hers.

Your utter complacence is
Perpetually mitigated by your patience;
Yet, since we've met,
Your ubiquitous,
Splendidly liquidous,
Serendipitous humor,
Like a tumor,
Has beguiled me,
Defiled me,
Riled me.

Your delicious,
Surreptitious,
Obfuscation of superfluous condemnation is
Erroneous and felonious
A frantic and pedantic antic.

Breathe.

Look around you.

Take it in.

This is transient, fleeting, insignificant.

You can twist, pull, push, warp this reality as much as you want.

But you will never make any of it mean anything.

You like to lie awake at night and stare at your ceiling sometimes.

You like to pretend that you can see through the brick and slate

And paint and plaster

And all the way up to heaven, or to whatever else is up there.

But you can't.

Be wary, kid. This is not your daydream.

This is not the metaphysical realm of your juvenile imagination.

Look to the ground;

To the grass and the earth and the newly fallen leaves,

Look to the sea;

To the waves and the little fishing boats and the screech of the gulls at an orange dawn.

Look to the small things;

To the smell of clean sheets, to the feel of your lover's skin underneath your fingers,

To the sound of the rain as you drift off to sleep and dream of your juvenile metaphysics.

**** it all;

**** your dreams of stars and your visions of constellations.

**** your childish wonderment of the sky at midnight.

**** your existential ramblings and your formless morning murmurings.

**** your futile love, your darling, darling love,

Who looks like the sun and lives like a hurricane.

For this is not your daydream.


- K.L.L.N

This stick and stones ransack rebellion,

and now a broken appendage is just, well, that’s it.

It’s going to be that way now till I die.

Inside we’re all screaming, even when we scream outside.

Subtlety is not an act of human consciousness,

and truth be told, sometimes I forget why we try

to find the longest way around what we want to say.

Love would be easier if you’d all just *******.

I hate myself, but I’m content with that.

I’m not anyone’s biggest fan, but I’ll learn.

I hate religion.

I love curse words.

I ******* love curse words.