Pardon me . . .
don't say anything Sets, don't say anything Sets, don't say anything Sets . . . no. Stop--Ah! I--I see what you're doing. I said stop! Stop it! No! Setsuled . . . Just--will you listen to me? Can it! Will ya?
*ahem* Yes. Sorry. What was that about you may ask? Well, fuck you for asking, it happens to be very personal and . . . Yeah.
Once, in High School, in P.E., people wre picking teams for some game or another. I'd been more sociable than usual that day so maybe that's why I felt vaguely sad that no one wanted to play with me. It was one of the very, very few occasions in my life where I was uncomfortable with the fact that I was abnormal.
For some reason, I mentioned this to my mother, and of course her advice was that I try to change and be more like the other kids.
I think this whole story's pretty obvious and I think anyone reading knows exactly what's so fucked up about my mother's advice.
Even so, to this day I still occasionally have to remind myself that being the kind of freak I am doesn't come without it's price. Sometimes I do see a pretty patch of green on the other lawn. I just have to remind myself that from all the angles I've seen, this still looks like the route that's best for me.
Anyway. I'm not sure I have any choice.
don't say anything Sets . . .