Lapsing into Swahili

"I haven't heard you speak," says she, jabbing the air in front of me with an accusing finger. I'M BLOODY USELESS, OK? I GAVE A SUGGESTION TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM, BUT DID ANYONE LISTEN? No, it's no one's fault but my own, although I imagine Olivia the Pig, button-cute, mouth always wide open in high-volume protest. What's the point of complaining? Blah, blah, blah. I'm always "so tired", it's no wonder I do crap work, and solve no problems.
A taxi-driver "with grandchildren" decided to tell me all about his love life on the ride from RJ to Serene Centre. I can't tell whether he's cheating on his wife or not.
There is no such thing as an eloquent silence anymore, I wrote in one of my notebooks. How many have you seen? Count them on your fingers. Yes, you can see silence. I watched too many artsy Japanese English-subtitled movies, and too little of Gilmore Girls. Actually, I don't watch TV. And when I want to talk, where's the silence? Clogged as the pores on my face.
History essays and Russian salads can ruin moments, you know, and you have to pretend you didn't notice or didn't mind. Because maybe you didn't so much, because it was stupid to, but because of what you didn't do, or couldn't have -
I'm sorry, but what exactly was so good about Love Me If You Dare? You call it romantic, I call that morbid. Or maybe there was something I missed, being so miserable about the grainy corner of a wall-to-wall mural. The French love to shock, don't they? What was I supposed to feel?

"... lightly envious with an irrelevant thought - no one will show they're not needed, after all, is all. They show off. And they took each other's hands with affection, that's all."