Sometimes I think that people don’t like me. Sometimes I know they don’t like me. I used to think that maybe it was because I dressed weird. People don’t like things that are different. It makes them uncomfortable because they don’t know how to respond. It forces them to think beyond their own imperfect perceptions. And people love to think that they’re perfect. It’s a comfortable facade.
I used to think maybe it was because I didn’t have parents, and no one knew what to say to me about that. Or maybe it was because I was so angry all the time. And people don’t like anger. Out of every emotion, humanity struggles the most with anger because they refuse to feel it. I don’t refuse.
Or maybe it was because I would always sit in class, scribbling out poetry, and not paying attention. Or maybe it was because I don’t care to make friends and be cordial. I don’t speak much, but when I do, I say exactly what I think. And people don’t like when others are so blunt and honest. People love to live in white lies. But so many of those white lies are told, that everything about everyone becomes a big lie. But, I never cared about that. I never needed anyone to like me, so I had never felt the need to lie about who I really am. Of course, that all changes when you get older. Or maybe that’s just me.
Maybe people don’t like me because of the music I like. Or the fact that, even as a small boy, I’d rather sit in the library by myself at lunch instead of on the playground playing with the other children. Or maybe it was because the last time I did play on a playground, I pushed Claire off the jungle gym and she accidentally broke her arm. Or maybe they didn’t like me because of the drawing I made in art class of Brian Greggory being hung by a noose. (He deserved it. He kicked me and pushed me down at lunch that day.) Or maybe it was because I threw a chair at Miss Kolesar, everyone’s favorite teacher in 7th grade. (She never liked me.) Or maybe it was because I tried to set an abandoned house on fire freshman year. (Who cares? It was abandoned. I wasn’t hurting anyone.) Or maybe they didn’t like me because Laurie and I became friends. She was supposed to be one of the preppy cheerleader girls, but she’d rather do drugs with me in the woods instead of go to class. I “stole” their perfect friend, perfect student, perfect daughter, perfect everything. And people love to think that everything they love is perfect, too.
But, no. The real reason people don’t like me isn’t any of these things in particular. The truth is, people don’t like me because I am a raging, psychotic asshole.
This is chapter 1 of the book I’m writing: Exhibit 1. Read the info page to know more (: