blab

I was probably about 2 or 3 then, just trying to blab, because the early nurses I had when I was a kid had said that I had delayed speech or something called “selective mutism.”

Cat crunched her lemonade ice happily and said mental thank-yous—to Harriet for not blabbing, to Chicken for not being any quicker, to the driver of the truck.

Think of the worst person you know: the kind who blabs people’s secrets, mocks their diction, dismisses their pain while making festivals of her own.

Within minutes, she’d blabbed to everyone, making it sound like a big joke—with Jess and the twins as the punch line.

Babbling and blabbing all along with only about 1/3 of his content having any meaning in reality.