Chalk it up to NYC living if you must, but even before my fifteen years there I have had a difficult time with overly friendly folks. I spent the majority of my youth in Texas, where polite and sincere chit-chat between strangers is more common than the concealed weapons the state government allows them to carry. In the past three years I’ve worked hard to open my heart to all levels of kindness, but even still there are times when the eagerest chatters, the biggest fans, and the people who’d have you believe they’d help you at all costs within a five-minute introduction put me in a fight or flight state of mind. Someone asks, “You need help with that?” And my gut tries to dictate my retort with something along the lines of, “Oh, you’d like to help me wouldn’t you? You help me, and then one night you ask me for help, and I come over to help you and you take out a hammer, crush my cranium all kinds of silly, bury me out in your backyard to tenderize me before turning me into first-prize county fair beef jerky.” It’s worth noting that due to an ‘accidental’ connection to HBO and other movie channels we had when I was a child, that I saw Motel Hell at a very tender age. If you are unfamiliar with the film, I ask that you go easy on your judgment of my lack of enthusiasm for those people who are just a wee bit too excited to do everything for you, like say grandmas.