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Why does anybody bother to be my friend?

I hate introducing myself to people. Hate. At parties, I'm the one in the chair by the dip unless I know lots of people there. I can never just walk up to a complete stranger and be their friend. It's why I don't talk to anyone in my theology class. People have to approach me first, and if they don't I'm just thinking my own thoughts.

I'm just antisocial. Today people tried to chat me up, poor dears, and I'd manage to say some inane things (I absolutely despise small-talk... I do not give a flying ferret about the weather or what you got on the midterm) but mostly it was Katie in Cocoon.

I saw a beautiful turquoise and tangerine butterfly today. It was lying dead. Someone had stepped on it. Bastard.

Why do you people put up with me? I'm utterly boring. I managed to spend eighteen years in the same room in the same house in the fourth-largest city in America and never have anything interesting happen to me. I live my life through other people's stories. That's frickin' pathetic. No intercontinental ingenue, me, just a small-town girl in a big-city body. Or a plain ol' big body. There are days I feel mammoth-y, with my five-nine-size-sixteen-jeans-size-eleven-shoe self.

When I'm happy I'm just irritating, giggling and squeaking and bouncing and just downright manic, which is pathetic considering I'm too tall to achieve cuteness, and when I'm down I'm mopey and pouty and tell sob story after sob story. And here I am, prating on, annoying as hell. Like I know shit. Like you give a damn.

Suddenly I'm understanding why CB found me revolting. I repulse myself. And don't ask where this bad mood came from; if I knew I'd be fixing it.

You know those squash your mom used to punish you with at dinner? The veiny green-streaked-yellow ones with the little warty bumps that look like hell and taste even worse?

I am a squash.

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