Best Friends

For most of my childhood people my own age treated me like a desperate, clingy, needy weirdo who wanted to be their best friend. …Looking back though…I’m realizing how untrue that actually was.

It’s not that I didn’t like people. I was an absolute little sweetheart. I just didn’t get that close to people that quickly. I’m deep and serious and people have called me “intense” …but I’m not actually feeling that close to people. Listening to you in a truly caring way, cutting to the point of things and being nauseated by small talk unless it’s necessary doesn’t mean I’m your best friend. …It’s not that I was averse to that prospect, and I actually thought I had best friends at times, but me just being me doesn’t mean I’m in love with you or want to be your best friend. And no, not having narcissistic or bourgeois pretenses or filters doesn’t mean I’m an emotional slut… I’m polite, but I’m not you.

I think people take my lack of fascination with them as me being secretly obsessed with them. They assume I’m watching them the way they obnoxiously (intrusively and obtusely) stare at and watch me.

“I feel like people are staring at me.” (And they were) I was walking around a mall looking normal.

“You’re paranoid!” said a hateful aunt I trusted my heart to, as the innocent lovable child I was.

No. You…watch…me. And none of you have almost ever felt the need to tell me why. I’m too far beneath all of you supernatural demi-gods?

Happy Sunday!