I hate people. Yes, I hate people so much that I’m writing on a platform explicitly made to reach the billions of people across this international bridge called the internet. What a sad form of communication. If I could somehow be published in a newspaper or magazine, at least I would feel like people of real substance would read it. Not to insinuate that you have no substance, but you saw the title and decided to read anyway, so how offended can you really be?
See, I’m writing this on the ass-backwards communicative form that is a blog because – as I’ve already mentioned – I DON’T LIKE PEOPLE. So obviously I’m not going to say it out loud. Not necessarily because I don’t want to offend, but because it would mean interaction with another person and I simply don’t want to do that. I’m what scientists call an asshole. Oh, sorry – I meant introvert. Again, not to make any assumptions that all introverts are assholes, I just happen to be one. Think correlation, not causation.
It’s a problem, because I say “I don’t like people” and said people think, “Oh she’s one of those lovable, sarcastic people that provide witty comments and dry remarks. Let’s bug her until she reluctantly takes us into her heart.” That’s fine and dandy, maybe a lot of introverts are like that. I’m not. Excess affection and pressing yourself into my life is NOT the way to make me like you. I have numerous failed relationships (romantic and friendly) that show the more I have to be around you, the less I enjoy your company.
Don’t get me wrong, I may be an asshole and an introvert, but I’m not heartless. I have friends, and I love them. Sometimes I want someone around to laugh at my witty comments. I just need people to understand that most of the time, I will wholeheartedly choose being alone. Please don’t wonder if there is something wrong with me. I have my share of mental insecurities and issues, but for the most part, I am a healthy and happy functioning member of society. I just wish that society would shut up every now and then. No matter how much you tell me “You just need to get out more” or “You just haven’t met the right guy” or “Amelia, you haven’t left the house in a week. At least shower.” I will not change, nor should I (except maybe to bathe).
Here’s the thing, the main point, the crux of the problem: I want to be alone, not lonely. I could never discourage anyone from being my friend. My deep, dark, secret truth is that I love people. I love making them laugh, I love hearing their stories, I love making them happy. But the love I can give – as well as the love I can take – spreads me thin. I need you to know that I need to recover. I need to build up myself before I can help support you. Often, that means being alone, maybe with a cup of coffee and a good book. Maybe a little Teen Wolf if I’m feeling especially tween-emotional that day. If you let me give you what love I have, on my conditions, I promise I’ll give it all. But I need you to love me for what I am: an asshole. Oh, wait – I meant introvert.