So it goes.

Lately, it seems like the world has taken a liking to laying me out on the front porch and just walking right over me, then jumping on my ribs and trampling me until the rug is worn down. It’s like I’m there but no one sees me. They don’t see the fact that perhaps I’m intelligent, or perhaps I don’t care to hear your problems, or perhaps I hate being called that, even if you are joking. It’s really my fault, honestly, but why can’t people just realize that when I have a dispassionate attitude, it means I really don’t care… really. I’m not a towel, waiting to soak up your every problem, nor am I your slave, forced to bear everything you throw at me. I swear, it’s like I’m a magnet for other people’s self pity, and I can’t—I just can’t scatter my domains. I hate listening to self-pity. I mean once in a while is fine. Really, it is. And a problem, thrown in there is perfectly acceptable, honestly. But if the only way we communicate is through you being a whiny little idiot, then I must inform you that this is getting to be too much. Everyone hears to what I say. I honestly think they do, but does it stick? Do they have the integrity, the decency, to just listen to it, just once in a while? I understand that I’m not the center of the world, I just wish to be like… recognized by those select few who possibly purposely try to piss me off. No, no it’s fine really, you don’t have to pay attention. It probably didn’t matter anyway.