Friday, October 14, 2005

Professional Asshole

It really is difficult being someone close to me. My emotions fluctuate like they're determined by supernatural forces. I'm forever impulsive and my concentration stays for as long as the topic at hand is deemed multi-dimensional (microcosmic string theory?). I feel easily smothered and run away at the first signs of romantic affection. My self-worth comes from external sources which affects my moods, so it's hard to take anything I say seriously even if those feelings are as overwhelming as those felt by people with long-term attachments to their pain. So who's to blame?

My parents? No, not them, no matter what those shrill doctors with Ph.Ds might say.

What's wrong with having crossed wires and unstable brain chemistry? What's so great about being a healthy individual anyway? It's not like my life's goal is to win a pie eating contest and make sure Oprah gets canonized. I want to preserve the intensely shy child I was before I was forced to deal with the cruelties of human interaction. Why was I made to feel broken because I didn't like meeting people? Why can't I continue to internalize everything I believe to be too dark, too raw, too savage for the average spectator? I'm helping, see. I'm saving everyone the trouble of having to deal with this floundering Pinocchio. Exerting bubbliness might be exhausting, but it beats having attention heaped on me in a vain attempt to correct my emotional disfigurement and nameless disease. I'm happy not being me.

I'm a narcissist, I'm a masochist, I have borderline personality, I'm a fucking co-dependent. I'm a label hound, I'm a second-hand spinster, I'm passive/aggressive and yet, perfectly fine. I'm damned to be a puzzle for people to solve -- a walking entertainment console for the blind, mute and deaf (and tactlessly gauche).

Let me be, let me be, let me be! I can't be anyone but the someone you want me to be.

Ce sont les tonneaux vides qui font le plus de bruit.

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