prolix

He started his story, and it went on and on. His explanation was so prolix, I could feel myself drifting away, the details blurring into a dull drone. I just wanted him to get to the point; his long windedness was tiring.

The old man's story about the lost button was so incredibly prolix, I nearly drifted off while he described the stitching. He went on for hours, each tiny detail dragging out the tale until it was just… too much.

He droned on forever. His explanation was so prolix, I thought my brain would melt from the endless, boring words. My eyes glazed over, and I just wanted him to stop; it was too much detail.

The gnome complained about the slime mold's instructions. He said the directions were so prolix, with endless steps about spore dispersal. He just wanted to know how to get it to stick to the fungus wall, not a whole history of fungal hygiene.

The inspector's report was so prolix, I almost fell asleep reading about the exact moisture content of the dust on the ancient teapot. Each sentence stretched on forever, detailing every tiny chip and smudge, making me wish for a simple "it's broken" instead of this exhausting, endless story.

He droned on, his explanation so prolix I thought my ears might fall off. Every little detail, every unnecessary example, just made me want to scream. The meeting was supposed to be an hour, but his endless talking pushed us well past two.

The artisan's explanation of the artisanal fermented yak butter process was so prolix, his audience's eyes glazed over, their stomachs rumbling for the actual tasting, not another hour of obscure fermentation science and the history of yak husbandry.

The artisan meticulously polished the tiny, hand-carved abalone shell inlay on the toothpick holder, his explanations becoming increasingly prolix as he detailed the precise angle of each micro-scrape. We just wanted to admire the finished piece, but his droning on about the historical significance of mother-of-pearl was making everyone's eyes glaze over.

He droned on and on, his explanation so prolix that everyone in the room started checking their watches. It felt like hours; the sheer amount of unnecessary detail made the simple answer impossible to find, leaving us all tired and frustrated.

My uncle's fishing stories are so prolix, you'd think he caught the Loch Ness Monster himself, complete with a detailed biography of each scale and its childhood dreams. By the time he finishes, the fish are probably fossilized.

His explanation of the project’s shortcomings was so prolix, each sentence dragging on, that I started to lose the thread entirely. The endless, winding sentences made it nearly impossible to grasp the main points. Honestly, it was just exhausting to listen to.

After hours of the antique clock restoration lecture, his explanation of each cog's minutiae became truly prolix. I struggled to stay awake, the craftsman's endless, rambling discourse on polishing techniques droning on, a tedious, unnecessary burden.

The historian's account of the medieval falconry trade was utterly prolic. Every minor transaction, every minor bird's lineage, was painstakingly detailed. After an hour, my eyes glazed over, the sheer volume of information overwhelming any remaining interest in the subject.

Bartholomew’s explanation of his sock drawer organization system was so prolix that the audience began to knit their own socks out of sheer desperation. He detailed every crease, every hue, and the philosophical implications of each pair. By the time he reached the argyle, the room was a tapestry of impending naps.

After an hour of listening, I was convinced the speaker's account was far too prolix. Every minor detail was stretched thin, turning a simple anecdote into a tedious ordeal. I longed for him to reach his point, but he seemed determined to elaborate endlessly.

The professor’s lecture, a truly prolix exposition, droned on and on. His interminable explanations, filled with tangential anecdotes, left the students in a state of near stupefaction. Each sentence, painstakingly constructed, felt like a burdensome excursion.

The alchemist, eager to impress, launched into a prolix exposition on the intricate transmutation of lunar dust. Hours bled into an agonizing recounting of every minute, fruitless adjustment. My patience, already attenuated by the oppressive humidity, evaporated with each excruciatingly detailed, tiresome explanation.

The xenobotanist sighed, his patience wearing thin. He’d endured an hour of the expedition leader’s prolix monologue on spore dispersal patterns, each sentence a tedious detour. He just wanted to *analyze* the bioluminescent fungi they’d discovered, not drown in unnecessary exposition.

Bartholomew, a man whose orations were notoriously prolix, once recounted a harrowing tale of misplacing his spectacles. He elaborated on the peregrinations of each errant lens, detailing the existential ennui of a misplaced monocle for nearly four hours. His audience, a flock of somnolent pigeons, seemed entirely unfazed by his perfervid pronouncements.

Algernon's dissertation on the existential angst of sentient bread mold was so prolix, it threatened to ossify the very concept of time. Each paragraph, a labyrinthine excursus on fungal fermentation, included exhaustive enumerations of yeast strains, leaving readers in a stupor, desperately seeking a digestible crumb of narrative.