Conclusions.

I’ve always been a believer in self-analysis. When you’re a narcissist, you tend to promote the popularity of doing nothing but thinking about yourself. We all must admit: you lose a bit of culpability if everyone else is doing it too. And today, as I was greedily and guiltily consuming my third Krispy Kreme donut (No, I would not like to know the Nutrition Facts, thanks), I came to a conclusion about myself. So here goes.

I am an easy person to like and an impossible person to love.

Explanation: First impressions are everything. I often make good first impressions. At first glance, I am not hideous or overweight (yet) or underweight or covered in rashes or buboes or the like. Similarly, I’m not gorgeous or perfectly thin with lushes locks and a piercing glance. Upon meeting me, I am deemed sufficiently approachably normal. I am easy to greet: I’m not ugly so you can’t focus on my ugliness and likewise I’m not gorgeous so you can’t get nervous.

I consider my voice too deep and manish, but many a person has told me I’m hallucinating. Besides, I make up for any horrid masculinity (oh the terror of a girl who’s not a delicate squeaky-pitched flower! < / sarcasm >) with a fashionable sense of dress and a habit of ritually bathing. So whatever.

I tell a lot of jokes, sometimes too many. I talk a lot to fill awkward silences, sometimes too much. But usually it’s just okay. I’m interested in a lot of things, and sometimes random conversations will flow for minutes, hours, not days yet, but you never know.

I am amazingly easy to befriend. If you’re not seriously creepy or seriously arrogant or seriously stupid or seriously serious or seriously not-serious-enough or seriously obsessed with any one thing or seriously not liking anything… BASICALLY, if you fit into the box of “normal” or close to it, I will probably like you. And you will probably like me. Not love me, but like me.

I am very hard to love.

When the newness of a person fades, I don’t keep my perfect-girl guard up anymore. I become bitingly sarcastic, pessimistic, antisocial and impulsive. I cancel on people last minute. I don’t answer phone calls. One wrong sentence can set me off on a tangent in which I walk away fuming. (See last post. How appropriate. *sigh*) But for some reason, people aren’t that critical of me (at least, to my face). And that’s probably a good thing, as I am severely critical of myself. I do not take compliments well. I don’t give them all that well, either, but I try to say what I’m thinking if it’s something positive. I am hard to reach, and once you reach me, I’m hard to keep, and once you keep me, I’m hard to entertain. I like the finer things. I like good food, great movies, hilarious jokes, fantastic music. I find mediocrity boring. I am probably the most easily-bored person on the face of the planet. I flirt for laughs and then don’t keep in touch. When people reach out to me, I respond. Otherwise, forget it. I throw enormous pity parties for myself and feel worse when nobody wants to attend. (Can’t say that I blame them.) I write epic blog posts about how terrible I am. This action right now is only proving my point. How’s that for a migraine?

I have been told on way too many an occasion that I am impossible to figure out.

I blame this on the fact that my parents are complete opposites and never should have bred. My father hides his emotions like pox scars; my mother is outspokenly passionate. My father dresses nice but doesn’t really care for apperances; my mother is unbelievably vain. My father is tall and thin and pale. My mother is short with a bigger frame and dark skin. My dad is an electrical engineer. He reads books about sales and business for fun and is good at math and enjoyed Physics. He once ran track. My mother is a legal assistant who made straight As in every class but P.E. She is an English, History, and serial killer fanatic. (Criminal love – it’s genetic.) And these two decided it was a good idea to combine all this shit together and create some kids. Ding ding ding! You lose.

So I am an insanely emotional person who feels the need to hide aforementioned brimming emotions. I always have to dress nice, wear makeup, and fix my hair. If I don’t, I must be depressed or insane. I am obsessed with my own physical appearance. It’s sad. I am tall and thin and pale, like my dad, but I tan, like my mother, and have her dark eyes. I do yoga and read Sylvia Plath, but I also feel a desire to know a lot about everything, which is very “Dad” of me.

I am complex, but not in the cool, indie, chic sort of way. I’m complicated, but in a way that is cliche and painfully simple. Easy to like, hard to love. I’m amazed this didn’t hit me sooner. Then again, I was probably too busy reading about Jeffrey Dahmer or fixing my mascara. How sad.