via: shirtoid

Monster by Design

It’s no big secret; I say it constantly. I have little to no interest in the lives of people because I feel so detached from them. Their constant ravings, rantings, ratings tire me. They bored me. Their emotions are misplaced, misused and misunderstood. I’m not depressed because I hate people; I hate people because I’m depressed. And that depression is my only link to them.

I avoid interactions where I have to play the role of ordinary, every day guy. I despise talking to the security guard who thinks his job is to eye-fuck every woman with well-endowed breasts. I don’t play well with others whose personalities seem as fabricated as – yet, an extremely exaggerated version of – mine.

I come off sardonic, sarcastic, cynical and misanthropic to others. Small talk is made to avoid awkwardness with me – though, they never know just how awkward small talk really is. Some rather just avoid me, which is what I prefer. So why is it that despite all my social-fatal flaws, people still come in drones to confide in me?

Enter the Wingman

I mentioned in an earlier post about the worker who decided to open up to me. Well, last night, he decided to go into further detail about his bad relationship with his now cousin-in-law (draw your own damn lines). Unlike me, this guy wasn’t born with his demons; they were acquired through a shitty relationship and an even shittier world. This might actually explain why bells didn’t resonate through my mind’s ears when I met him. I normally don’t “smell” “impostures,” I can only sniff out the real deal – the misanthropic few that radiate the same vibes I do – whatever that means, I just wanted to sound cool.

Last night, however, he decided to speak to me about his current situation. We were in the ticket office – which is slowly feeling like a territory I don’t want to tread through anymore – where we spent most of the day chatting with ticket manager, Jesse, and ticket giver(?) – a girl who, like the worker, will remain anonymous. He spoke to the latter with ease. There wasn’t anything to it. However, after the night was nearly over, he dropped the ball and ruined our perfect day.

“How do you know if a girl will cheat on you?”

Oy vey. Here we go again. “You don’t. That’s life, man.”

After a few rounds of this, I open him up to my philosophy of dealing with the little things: Fuck it.

That wasn’t enough, apparently.

“But how do you talk to girls? Like I would like to talk to S*****. What do you think of her?”

I don’t. She’s a vapid bitch who I only communicate with because I’m expected to play nice with vapid bitches because they don’t know they’re so goddamn vapid that it makes my goddamn head hurt. 

“She’s nice.”

“I’d like to speak to her, but I don’t know how. Like I was talking to this girl here without even thinking about it, but I know I couldn’t talk to her in the same way.”

“Fuck it, man. That’s all you gotta say. Fuck it and do it and whatever happens, happens. If I spent my whole life wondering if someone was going to like me or accept me when I first spoke to them, I’d be a very lonely guy right now. So my advice is fuck it, do it and see what happens.”

It goes on like this for minutes – what feels like hours – until finally he understands that he’s not to go for the kill automatically as that would seem creepy, desperate and/or a combination of other awkward self-presentations.

And just when I think the conversation is over, he has to go and ruin it – again, “There are so many girls, how do I know which one to choose?”

“Don’t choose. Just talk to them. You can’t go in for the kill, otherwise they’ll see what you’re aiming of and that’s never good.”

Are we done? Can I pretend that this never happened yet? Please?

“Okay, man, but you gotta help me choose.”

Goddamnit.

Who do I have to fuck? I don’t know.

It’s a serious issue I’m dealing with. I know I’ve made several attempts to fit in, to make friends, to do the whole being “normal” schtick that you all seem to do so naturally, but I don’t want the weight of other people’s burdens on my shoulders. I don’t want to talk about the size of a girl’s chest or how big your dick is – true story, this just happened yesterday and I would like it expunged from my memory immediately. In fact, most of the times, I just want to be alone – but this gets boring and I need some chaos in my life (which is probably defined as having socially awkward people confide in me…oh. my. god. I have the perfect girl for him!).

It’s funny how these things work themselves out in the end, hu?

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