I hate when people from out of state ask where you’re from. Here’s how it goes every single time:
Where are you from?
Windsor, Colorado.
Where’s that?
Okay, so now you’ve just been asked the same question twice in a row. You COULD fill in for them, like so:
Where are you from?
Windsor. It’s about an hour north of Denver.
Oh.
For all that hard work you will be rewarded with an “Oh” and likely a story about the one time this person went to the nearest city and ate at a Chipotle
As an alternative, I’ve come up with some answers that will either result in total silence or a much more interesting conversation than one about which road goes to which places and what the traffic is like on said road.
Where are you from?
I…I don’t actually know. I had a terrible head injury and can’t remember where I’m from, how people I’m on dates with feel about things, and general hygiene procedures.
Where are you from?
I’d rather not say. It makes people think I’m really sexy and interesting.
Where are you from?
It’s a long story. The short version is that it starts with “Once Upon a Time…” and then ends with “…they did their best to reduce the scarring, but they were only volcano priest men, not the volcano gods to which they pray.”
Where are you from?
[turn around, point] That house/apartment/cluster of shrubs/dumpster space on nights that the guy gets stoned and forgets to lock the gate.
Where are you from?
I don’t think it matters. I know where YOU’RE from, and I’ve seen how you spend your time there.