People think I'm rather strange. Not in a -- necessarily -- worrisome way, but more in the vein of "I'll smile, nod, laugh, leave, and not think any further about my interactions with her."
I've come to terms with this. It isn't so bad, really, to be thought of as the odd duck; at least I'm not "the ugliest cat in the world" or "that chick with the boobs." I have next to no friends, but that isn't too troubling, because I know I could have friends. People laugh at my jokes, and give me sincere smiles, and prattle on about boring things to me before class. It I was so inclined, I'm capable of putting up a facade and melding into "their" world in which I would attend parties, flirt with boys, and giggle over Facebook as I read over what people have left on my wall. I know this.
I don't want it, though, and therein lies my struggle to keep the tenuous balance between being true to myself while refraining from becoming the verbal equivalent of a hobo peeing against the wall of a subway. Which, I've found, can be drastically harder than one might think. It's like being a My Little Pony who's trying to disguise the fact that her name doesn't sound like the stage pseudonym of a schizophrenic homosexual on crack, but doing so after having woken up with a hangover and watching consecutive marathons of Gilligan's Island and Green Acres. (What?)
I'm eternally annoyed by the vapid ditzes society churns out. Oh sure, they're all sweet enough, smart enough, funny enough, successful enough -- enough, enough, enough, enough, but never ENOUGH. They bother me because I find myself speaking to them as I would a well-intentioned but slow five-year-old; and that makes me want to tattoo Godzilla onto my chest and bathe in cooking sherry.
Over the years I think I've managed to get a firm grip on the art of normality, and most of the time, if the conversation stays superficial, I can pass myself off as a Stepford Student. Which is why I love -- love, love, LOVE -- breaking character now and then.
They say things that one might perceive as friendly and considerate: "Are you feeling all right? You're looking a little pale."
Gee, thanks. Yeah, well, being 37.5% Irish will that to a person's skin. I was feeling fine, actually, until you shoved your insensitivity through the door where I store my insecurities. Now I'm second guessing everything about myself today: Is my eye makeup bringing unnecessary pallor to my complexion? Does this shirt make me look bloated? Is my toothpaste doing an adequate job of whitening my smile? Does she know I'm wearing an extra-thick Maxi pad? You don't care about how I am, so why did you even ask?
Sometimes, though, instead of dissolving into a tearful and twitching mess as the other person slowly retreats in soundless worry, I'll deliver a startling little answer with a nod and a smile:
"Oh I'm just a little tired. Guess I should stop staying up until three in the morning reading Wikipedia pages on serial killers, huh?"
And eyes back to the front of the class. Yes, this does make me feel better about myself. Why do I feel compelled to take out my frustrations and insecurities on well-meaning if dull people?
Why is the sky blue, baby.
I've come to terms with this. It isn't so bad, really, to be thought of as the odd duck; at least I'm not "the ugliest cat in the world" or "that chick with the boobs." I have next to no friends, but that isn't too troubling, because I know I could have friends. People laugh at my jokes, and give me sincere smiles, and prattle on about boring things to me before class. It I was so inclined, I'm capable of putting up a facade and melding into "their" world in which I would attend parties, flirt with boys, and giggle over Facebook as I read over what people have left on my wall. I know this.
I don't want it, though, and therein lies my struggle to keep the tenuous balance between being true to myself while refraining from becoming the verbal equivalent of a hobo peeing against the wall of a subway. Which, I've found, can be drastically harder than one might think. It's like being a My Little Pony who's trying to disguise the fact that her name doesn't sound like the stage pseudonym of a schizophrenic homosexual on crack, but doing so after having woken up with a hangover and watching consecutive marathons of Gilligan's Island and Green Acres. (What?)
I'm eternally annoyed by the vapid ditzes society churns out. Oh sure, they're all sweet enough, smart enough, funny enough, successful enough -- enough, enough, enough, enough, but never ENOUGH. They bother me because I find myself speaking to them as I would a well-intentioned but slow five-year-old; and that makes me want to tattoo Godzilla onto my chest and bathe in cooking sherry.
Over the years I think I've managed to get a firm grip on the art of normality, and most of the time, if the conversation stays superficial, I can pass myself off as a Stepford Student. Which is why I love -- love, love, LOVE -- breaking character now and then.
They say things that one might perceive as friendly and considerate: "Are you feeling all right? You're looking a little pale."
Gee, thanks. Yeah, well, being 37.5% Irish will that to a person's skin. I was feeling fine, actually, until you shoved your insensitivity through the door where I store my insecurities. Now I'm second guessing everything about myself today: Is my eye makeup bringing unnecessary pallor to my complexion? Does this shirt make me look bloated? Is my toothpaste doing an adequate job of whitening my smile? Does she know I'm wearing an extra-thick Maxi pad? You don't care about how I am, so why did you even ask?
Sometimes, though, instead of dissolving into a tearful and twitching mess as the other person slowly retreats in soundless worry, I'll deliver a startling little answer with a nod and a smile:
"Oh I'm just a little tired. Guess I should stop staying up until three in the morning reading Wikipedia pages on serial killers, huh?"
And eyes back to the front of the class. Yes, this does make me feel better about myself. Why do I feel compelled to take out my frustrations and insecurities on well-meaning if dull people?
Why is the sky blue, baby.
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