I used to think my problem was that I hated people.
I was anti-social.
Or somewhat of an introvert of some sort (if I’m even using the word in the right context here)… which I’m probably not because I’m sure the original definition has nothing to do with talking to people.
But anyways.
Wait, let me google.
Introversion is an attitude-type characterized by an orientation in life through subjective psychic contents…
Right, whatever that means.
So basically, I’ve been using my personality traits as technical labels to justify an everyday lifestyle.
Great. Probably not a good idea.
But here’s the thought I was trying to make: I don’t in fact hate people than I do their vain expectations for my emotional feedback which is often absent depending on the conversation. For example, just the other day, a stranger was openly telling me about a fire that happened near her building…
…
…
…
Exactly.
Now I know for many years I played along. I did.
Embarrassingly enough, for two weeks I spent reading books on communication. Going INSANE. Saving time clarifying, convincingly reacting and then obviously write about it later.
But honestly, as she was illustrating, I just sat there.
I mean, I didn’t react at all.
“Is everything okay?” She stared.
Honestly, I laughed mainly because I rarely take to such responses. Usually I figure, nine times out of ten, I’m just misunderstood.
“I’m perfectly fine.”
Wow Bella, well done. She thinks you’re a psychopath now.
And honestly, I could care less. And I left her with that.
Until next time.
“It’s important to get out of the house occasionally to remind yourself why you don’t go out.”— Unknown
