Feeding my frustrations

I'm safe until you read this.

Right, so there are the conversations. A lot of them. With a lot of people. Some more often than others. Depending on proximity, availability and accessibility, the chats would vary from random spewing of annoying buzzwords to surprisingly deep discussions about human nature. Well, that always equates to what I said I'll do, what actually happened, and what it all turned out to be. That one, I have yet to figure out. Or, we have to.

If there was a mistake, it was the attachment. Unnecessary. Definitely unnecessary. Considering that it was all based on that stupid belief that something should've happened in the past, given that I wasn't exactly a personality that lived under a rock, collecting notoreities as the terms passed. Or, you don't believe in logic, instead choosing whatever the dragons send our way.

Or, maybe, the mistake is, I became genuinely interested in you. But they said it was a good thing. Downside is, I'm not exactly equipped to talk to people, instead hoping that something good does happen. As always, it didn't. So I sat there, taking random ideas from these blue seats while typing not-so-random words for the world to see. I guess that lack of social aptitude led to me looking like a freak, which led to you thinking I'm not exactly the best person in the world to hang out with.

Either that, or you're far more inept than I am.

The problem is, I'm not leaving that interest behind until I run out. I don't need you telling me that, maybe, I'm the worst guy you had the misfortune of meeting. I think I have my presumptions working my way on that one. So, sure, I won't know more about you in socially acceptable conditions - conversations, something you don't obviously believe in - but there are other ways. Telling me off (without telling me off) just flicked a switch.

Maybe it's an unconscious decision. I don't care.

So I'm not in control of the situation. Fine. I've never been in control of my life anyway. I find ways to wrapping my finger around the story. True, theories bending facts won't work well, and I still have an objective streak in my blood - I got it from my childhood - which means it actually pains me to spin things this way. And call me a freak. Who cares? Everybody's called me that, and they don't see everything, or they don't see themselves. Catch is, you are one, too. You just happen to prefer to laugh at the jokes of some pimply dismissive bitch rather than, maybe, stick to substance or something.

And yes, this will sound juvenile. When did you start caring?

So I presume you won't care when I tell you that, yes, those conversations have led me to know who you are, without having to ask you about who you are. Clandestine, yes. Illegal, perhaps. Stalker-ish, who cares? You lose this one. I'm sure a part of you cares about what people think of you. Same as me. So you've lost control of all of that. At least for one person, and the rest of the universe, maybe, you're not the nice, quiet, intelligent girl who likes to read and write and geek over stuff.

You're this bitch - yes, buzzword - again, you're this bitch. You're this socially inept bitch who tries hard to prove that you're better than everybody else, by trying hard to be misunderstood, by talking gibberish so you'll look intellectual, by making yourself look like you're much better than, oh, say, someone who's actually interested in knowing who you are and, maybe, accept you for all of those flaws. You're the person who wants to badly to hide every little flaw you have, everything you thought was unacceptable to the society you've frowned at. You wanted it encrypted.

Well, guess what? I suck at references, but I hacked through it, and what I think you are, you cannot ever change. And you failed. I was ready to love you, and actually I already did, and perhaps I looked hopeless going about it, but the heck, it was all wrong. I regret that. But I win.

And your responses...

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