Everyday Uncommon

My Island

I like people.

I may give off that impression of being stand-offish sometimes but in truth, I am as warm and mushy as the next person—with the right people. 

I am selfish. I do not give of myself easily. I don’t throw around words like love or friends casually. I hear it so often from other people that I usually wonder if they really know what it means. 

The thing is, I guess I’m an acquired taste. I’m not for everyone. When I was growing up, I knew people liked me. Old people and babies. I don’t fare as well with the in-between crowd. 

I’m feeling a little down at the moment. A little needy. I want to be liked. I want to be befriended. But it seems that the people that I wish to be my friends are satisfied to remain my acquaintances, so I have to be satisfied with that as well.  

I’m tired of trying. Granted, I don’t try all that often. I seldom find people I like enough to go through the trouble—platonically and otherwise.

I’m not the life of the party. To most, I’m forgettable. I’m quiet. Unless we have a real conversation, you probably won’t get a chance to discover how funny I am. Really, I am.

So, for now, I will float along. I’m not totally friendless but I miss having friends around. I miss having my people. I don’t have that anymore and it’s lonely sometimes. 

I’ll live.

 

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