Truths

Expressionless Expression: How To Fake It Through Life

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I was going to write something but then I figured it didn’t make sense so instead I’ll say this:

Returning to this blog after the last few posts feels like that one awkward co-worker you have whose boss asked them to enter another hundred pages in the spreadsheet fifteen minutes before she’s off, and then asks her ten minutes later to stay for an hour of overtime even though it’s already nine’o clock and she stands up, spits in his face, launches the paper in the air and falls to the floor making paper-angels (the adult tantrum version of snow angles) and laughing and laughing and laughing and simultaneously crying and then leaps to her feat and kicks her boss in the balls and stands on the table screaming about all the stupidity she’s had to put up with.

That’s what it feels like.

I know I blew up last night because I can feel the remnants of it on the back of my teeth. What does that mean? I don’t know, some of you are probably scholars, why don’t you place literary meaning on it and tell me? You’re good at that. Come up with some deep symbolism and call me in the morning.

Don’t call me. I hate talking on the phone. Email me.

The more and more I think about it, the more and more I realize I am my car.

I don’t have wheels though. That’s the only difference. If I had wheels . . .

The first thing I’d do is run someone over. Sorry to whoever that person is. I want to see what it feels like to roll over a body.

There’s your sip from the “what the fuck did she just say” cup for the day.

Wheelchair does not count. Don’t get all smart-assed and  politically correct with me.

chariot-skates-rushI want wheels as my feet. Not like the kids shoes where you lean forward or backward or some shit and wheels pop out the bottom and you fuck up your calves by rolling down the street with your weight tipped backwards.

You know what I never got as a kid that I really, really wanted besides those shoes? One of those battery operated cars. The ones you could sit in and drive yourself. I always wanted one. I have my own car and there’s still a hole in my heart.

Anyway, before I go off into la-la land again, I am my car, I realized this driving home today. It must be why when I saw it on craigslist I almost fell off my chair and said “that’s my car!” and bugged my father to call the people and then convinced my mother right after she got off work to drive us out there to pick it up. After literally nine months of searching for a car, I bought one in less than an hour on a whim, a gut feeling.

That’s me.

I keep the outside of my car very neat. Right now it’s a little dirty but that’s okay because it’s been raining. Otherwise–you all know, you’ve read my shit. I stand in the sun for four hours waxing it by hand (wax on-wax off) with quality shit, and wipe the chrome wheels with quality shit and keep my tint nice and black and my windows clear and my tires black as night. It’s beautiful on the outside, flawless even besides a few battle scars on the front bumper.

I’m alright with those only because it’s a ’99 that some teenager took four-wheeling when it’s clearly not that type of car.

It’s also show-offy. My one subwoofer that still works in the back outplays all four stock speakers on a new car. You can feel it vibrate your seat from the inside and if you put your hand on the car from the outside you’ll feel it. So it has some tricks up its sleeve. Wait until I rewire the left speaker; I’ll levitate off the ground just from the sheer power of the bass.

But it has some problems. It’s got the oil leak. It’s minor right now with the potential of becoming a much larger problem. The heater doesn’t blow air unless you’re driving and the air conditioner said fuck it, packed up its shit, and left long before I owned the car. The battery? Well the negative charge is on the top of the engine and the positive charge is across the top and at the front of the engine and the battery is stuck to some side apparatus on the right of the engine. Wires tuck every which way. It’s like those optical illusions you stare at until you don’t know what you’re staring at any more and you question your very existence and what it means to be human.

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And then you blink and ask where the fuck  you’ve been and you still don’t know.

I have too much give in my left side because I got my ball joints replaced without getting some other crucial parts replaced, including the control arm bushings in the back.

I squeak still. It used to be horrendous when the ball joints sucked.

Do I have a radiator or a fan? Who fucking knows; your guess is as good as mine. If anyone has a ’99 dodge stratus please, tell me, do you have a radiator or a fan? And where the fuck is it? In the truck underneath the carpet with a fish tank as a pump? Or what? What mastermind created this clusterfuck of a car?

I have a place for coolant. It bubbles and gurgles whenever I turn off the car after driving for a while.

That’s my car; clean on the outside, a clusterfuck on the inside. I’d say that’s a good analogy for me.

I gathered more evidence today, more evidence supporting how little interest I really have in other people.

Obviously I know I need to get better social skills to go to school and work and other such things.

But in the greater scope of it all, I don’t care to have connections outside of that, other than the one I already have–my boyfriend.

I feign emotion pretty well. I’ve spent all my life, since pre-school, observing people and peers and how they interact with each other. And when people talk at me about their lives and their interests and . . . dude, what do people even talk about? Holiday plans or something? Whatever.

That kind of shit? I smile and nod and pretend I’m interested.

I care that they care enough about me to want to tell me.

I do not care what they are saying. But sitting there with this expression:

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is not going to make me look “normal.”

So I smile when I think it’s appropriate based on my surroundings and I laugh when I think it’s appropriate and I nod and agree. Really, I’ve just become an expert at guessing. I don’t really know what to do when people talk to me.

57138345Some people are good story tellers and sometimes I’ll laugh for real and be entertained but I won’t know how to respond because why the fuck would I respond, you’re telling me a story; stories are meant to be listened to. Then they give me this face like “uh, say something!” and I’m darting my eyes left and right waiting to either drop dead or find a distraction from their brooding stare. Either or in that situation, honestly.

So on the outside I’ve got that Ice Cream Paint-job.

Please tell me you remember that song. You remember “Throw It In the Bag?” I’m pretty sure that was a strong beginning to “crap rap”.

On the inside I’m torn between what I enjoy (solitude, isolation, books, thinking,) and what people expect me to enjoy (social things, movies, casual chatter, and other stupid shit).

Yes, I know, be an individual, do what you like, it doesn’t matter what other people think.

But the reality of the world is that it does matter what other people think. In the professional world, it matters. You don’t get a job by telling the hiring manager that you prefer to sit on our ass all day and read books and get lost in magical worlds and prefer to be by yourself.

I’ve got to fake my way through life. That’s just the truth.

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So I’ll learn your social customs. I’ll participate in casual chatter once in a blue moon and I’ll pretend to give a flying fuck about your company policy and how much you care about “customer service”.

But you can’t make me enjoy it.

I said once before that I need to find a balance between my “social life” and my real life, the one I actually give a shit about.

And I do. But I don’t ever think it’s going to be 50/50. I think it’s going to be more like 97/3. Can you guess what the 97% represents?

I’ll be able to grocery shop for myself eventually. I’ll be able to make phone calls and attend class and survive group projects and finally take that fucking stupid ass piece of shit research class that’s keeping me from my FUCKING DEGREE. 

*Breathe*

But I’ll never have friends. I’ll have one or two, maybe even three, but I won’t see them often and I’ll be okay with that. The only reason I wanted friends was so that I didn’t look like a loner. But now I realize I’ve never had a problem being a loner, every one else had a problem with me being a loner.

I’ll never like parties.

I’ll never like huge holiday bashes.

I might go to one or two but that’ll be enough for the next five years.

I’ll survive working in a busy environment full of people when I finally finish my college career path. I’ll be friendly and establish very distant and perhaps even cold relationships with people.

And I’ll be the happiest I’ve ever been.

About AlishiaDee (372 Articles)
Alishia D. is a blogger, a beginning novelist, and a counselor at 2nd Story Peer Respite house where diagnostic labels and the culture of mental health is long forgotten. She's a mental health peer who has bounced through as many labels as she has doctors, and enjoys being sarcastic when she can. She also hates writing in 3rd person.

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