You should go read his take on it, we only have a few things to add.
Three months ago I went to Italy with my then boyfriend, Philip. As we were checking into the hotel, I struck up a conversation with the receptionist in Italian (just one of the five languages I speak).
Wow. Not at all self-obsessed or preening, no sirree. “Not like I’m bragging or anything, but I speak five whole languages.”
So do we, but you won’t find us obsessively pointing that out to every single hapless, defenseless soul we ever encounter. Because we don’t feel a need to. Because we aren’t that insecure and, on top of that, even if we spoke fifteen different languages, it still wouldn’t make our poop not stink. Nor would we ever consider ourselves entitled to special consideration because of it. So we have a knack for languages? Who gives a fuck, unless you’re looking for an interpreter?
But her “definitely not bragging” because she’s an insecure twit who doesn’t know why nobody can stand being in her company while she’s monopolizing the conversation pointing out how fucking awesome she is isn’t really the point here. This is:
But while I was enjoying myself, chatting away, it became clear that Philip most certainly was not.
He shuffled from foot to foot, muttered something under his breath and rolled his eyes like a stroppy teenager.
Then in the lift he turned on me. ‘I was wondering when you were going to let me join your conversation,’ he snapped. I tried to laugh it off but I knew this was the beginning of yet another argument.
‘You always have to be the star of the show,’ he continued in our bedroom, as he began to systematically work his way through the mini-bar. Apparently I was argumentative, a know-all and an intellectual snob.
What had I done? It should be depressingly obvious. I had dared to dent his fragile male ego.
By speaking in a language Philip didn’t know, I had managed to make him – a successful writer, ten years my senior – feel small. How selfish of me to embarrass him in public with my linguistic prowess!
Obviously we can’t speak for Philip since we’re not him, but we can speak for ourselves when we point out that we’d have been less than impressed with your behavior in that situation, had we been him. Not because we were “embarrassed by your linguistic prowess”, but because you’re a fucking boor, a peasant, an ill-bred, inconsiderate, self-aggrandizing pillock.
You see, we were brought up to know that it’s simply not done to converse with somebody in a language not known by everybody who’s a party to the conversation as in “somebody who is there.” It’s just plain rude. Unless the person you’re talking to doesn’t speak any other language and you’ve been picked as the person to represent all of you in order to facilitate communication.
It’s this whole human thing that some people who call themselves human have a hard time understanding: In a gathering, it’s generally considered polite and a sign of good manners to not exclude anybody from said gathering unless there is absolutely NO WAY of avoiding it. It simply isn’t done. If you have a shred of human decency. Just how much would you like it, miss smarty pants (and don’t get us wrong, we’ve met plenty of males who have the same lack of common breeding), if Philip had struck up a long conversation in a language you didn’t understand with somebody while you were left to stand around like the dumb, mute retard?
Did you determine whether or not that receptionist spoke English first? Did you, upon finding out that he didn’t, work it out in Italian while translating for your companion? Or did you just see another opportunity to show off your skills so your sad, empty life would finally have a Good Day™ to make up for an endless string of sad failures?
Do you have any manners at all?
Spare us. You’re pathetic. And we pray that you might find peace with your own insecurities and sense of inadequacy so that you might, one day, find a place among normal people.