Sure, I Care! (No. I Really Don’t).

My boyfriend wanted me to tell everyone that his penis is huge.

Now that we got that out of the way, let’s talk about anxiety.

I managed to get all the way through my 30’s with no problems when it came to communicating. Sometimes, I admit that I may have made the occasional awkward statement to a prospective beau, causing him to run away screaming. But clearly it was because was an asshole, not because I had just asked him how many fingers he’s had in his poop chute.

From the time I was a wee Babe, I had a knack for chatting. I was always the one who made others feel comfortable at parties. I could make you laugh at the drop of a hat (which I might add, is stupid aphorism). People gravitated to me in droves, which later became the cause of my addiction to antibacterial hand gel.

But now?

The thought of being in a crowd makes me nauseous. Parties are hell. Concerts are the devil’s playground.

So what changed?

Me. I’m what changed.

Society by and large still has the same construct it always did: There are “haves” and “have-nots”, cheerleaders and nose-pickers, vixens and virgins…Nothing much has changed in that arena. And as a vixen cheerleader, I should be relishing in my “have-osity”. Yes, that’s a word. Shaddup.

Instead, I find myself cowering at the thought of engaging with more than one person at a time.

I’m not sure when the switch flipped…it did so quite subtly. One day I woke up and decided I hated everyone. This is usually followed up with a trip to a bell tower (though it’s nothing to joke about these days), but I manage to keep my disgust hidden under layers of…silence.

You may find that hard to believe since I write like a crack-addict who slammed a Red Bull, but it’s the truth. I don’t really talk much anymore. My boyfriend is laughing in disbelief, so excuse me while I imagine smacking him in his dangly bits.

Perhaps I’m quieter these days because I simply don’t have the attention span (or the patience, or the compassion) needed to carry on a conversation. I don’t ask people how they’re doing because quite frankly, I don’t give a shit. Unless I DO give a shit, in which case I’ll ask and then ignore your answer.

Perhaps it’s late-onset ADD. Perhaps I ate a bad banana and this is the result. Or perhaps I’m just fucking fed up with the minutiae of every day life.

As I mentioned before, I have accounts on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. The quickest way to get me to murder you repeatedly (in my mind, anyway), is to leave a comment on my post which necessitates a response. Comments make me stabby. (Not yours, though. Yours are a joy to behold. No, really).

If I wanted conversation, I’d talk to my dog.

Hopefully this sheds some light on why I’m such a douche. I’m simply incapable of human contact (physical or otherwise) without copious amounts of Prozac.

Unless you’re my boyfriend.

But only because his penis is huge.