on popularity

people indulge me to fit in. they resent it and me, and deserve to; i would, but alas, i'm selfish, always taking more than i'm willing to give, consciously, unconsciously, doesn't matter. they're smart for it though. you never want to step on a cute girl's toes, especially one with my lying eyes. you don't know what type of leverage she probably has and you may need to use her in the future. i admit it's slightly twisted that i take advantage of their pride-swallowing attempts at making nice with me, but let's be real, they'd be disappointed if I didn't meet their low expectations so they'll get what they paid for, a cold shell breathing fiery sass. i'll remain stuck behind this glass display they've encased me in where they're safe from getting to know me. not saying they'd like who they'd find anyway; i'm a cynical and entitled "artsy bitch" who's become so good at feigning confidence that people actually believe my life is all cocaine and daises (generously misguided). my happiness is customarily overestimated by outsiders and by those who lie on the periphery of my social circle, a tier which could really use some tidying up.

it's like a reversal of that bystander effect where nobody takes action after witnessing an accident, assuming everyone else already has. genovese syndrome. in this case, everyone's overcompensating because they see my popularity as fact and they refuse to fuck with status quo. so, because they don’t have the balls to call me out on my shit or to get to know me, we continue to have roundabout conversations at brunch about boys they're crushing on who are chasing me, that girl we sort of knew in college who's getting married to that foul frathard who raped a girl sophomore year (who are we kidding, girls***), and the countless perks we get at the jobs we pretend to like. there's also the occasional backhanded compliment, which is possibly the most amusing and definitely the most honest thing said over the duration of my eggs florentine. i bet on the odds of that in my head.

my heightened sensitivity on the subject stems from a series of fickle and unfulfilling friendships with girls whom I should've known better than to trust. they were desperate to get in with my crowd and i let them maneuver my drunken gregariousness to talk to the boys who'd only ever consider them one night stands. still, the empty friendships that were fastened only by our common aesthetic could have carried on had they not been tainted by rabid jealousy. i must've lost sight of my selfishness somewhere in the barrage of their empty flattery 'cause no matter how you look at it, i ended up with the shit end of the stick.

just because i'm generally detached doesn't mean i don't long to feel. and that in itself is a feeling very likely to keep you up at night. we all want to be liked, but i torture myself over it. it's something i struggle with daily and it's difficult and shameful to admit. i don't want to live the rest of my life like it's a goddamn popularity contest, but i don't think i'll ever "grow out of it" like "they" say I will. go ahead, tell me it's a sign of immaturity or that I can't expect to harvest a fruitful friendship or relationship with anyone if i only expect to take. tell me i'm unlikeable and that anyone i'm keeping around is a willing fool. tell me something I don't know. there's a challenge for you. and by all means, tell me you feel sorry for me. i'm way ahead of you. i've already reserved a table at that chic charcuterie shop that just opened up around the bend for my pity party.

for one of course.