It’s fun, trying to be noticed and profound and loved, when you can’t talk to people.
Correction.
It’s fun, etc., etc., when you’ve forgotten how to talk to people.
Let me give you an example.
See? That was a great example! Nobody says “Let me give you an example” outside of middle school composition class.
Something is horribly wrong.
Here’s how a recent conversation went recently:
Me: [Walks in.]
Person from my Past, and by Past, I mean two years ago. Maybe: Hi!
Me: [Walks back out.]
Nah, for real though. I get insane anxiety when I see someone from my past. Or, like, anyone that knows me to any degree. I saw my “best friend’s” (I looked up best friend in Wesbter’s, and it didn’t say “1. Jerk. 2. Talk about you behind your back,” so I must’ve been using the term flippantly) mom at Walmart and, God bless her, she’s sweet, but she had no clue I hadn’t talked to her son in two years and neither did I want to. And, honestly, being confronted with any reminder of high school had me really high strung, and I was secretly praying that God would come back for His children so the conversation would end.
I flipped out on my whole family by the end of that day.
I’ve had entire panic attacks because I saw characters from my trashy, sci-fi pulp novel of a past, and it sounds super pathetic. It probably is. But listen, this is what I’ve become. I used to smile at everyone and want to talk and listen to people and now I realize that people suck and I think I do too. Maybe.
But n o w it has spread to people I don’t know!
Yay!
I went to an LGBT safe-space coffee shop/comic shop/bookstore with my friend Ricky. I honestly didn’t know what to expect because I’d never been to a “space” before. I was pretty excited, because I usually only get along with people who are at least a little gay, but it’s only Ricky and the cashier.
This is where we went, even though it's in a new location and I don't remember seeing a bathroom.
The cashier is nice enough. The shop is small, and had a rack of zines that I raided because, frick, I thought zines were just for people who, like, didn’t live in the dirty south like I do.
Ricky brought his computer, so he worked on art submissions, and I read a newspaper article about a guy who was a fascist and turned anarchist. He never really mentioned getting over his xenophobia, which kinda bugs me, but that’s okay. Everyone’s a work in progress, even though I feel like whoever has been working on me this whole time is Union, and they’ve taken a 10 year long coffee break.
Okay, point of this story, Ricky and this cashier start talking about cartoons, like Avatar and Spongebob and stuff, which I know a little about, but not enough fresh information to be in the conversation. So I sat and kinda fumed over not being attractive or fun like Ricky and politely listened to them banter back and forth about cosplay.
By the time I got home, I’d cooled off, and not just because it was summer and my A/C sucks.
See? That’s awful. My friend was having a great time, and I couldn’t because I can’t get over the fact that people just don’t like me. Put me up next to a picture of a traffic cone, and everyone ever picks the traffic cone, because at least it makes them late for work.
I don’t know why I’ve become this way or why I’m telling any of you about it. Geez, get a life.
~
Um. Whatever this was, I hope you enjoyed it?
I nominate 
Goodnight?
God bless?
<3?
