Why don’t you go out, be livelier, Joey, they ask?  Why do you stay at home when there are so many things to do out there, Joey, they keep asking?  I always reply with, it’s a small world, but in my head, I only know one, inconclusive reasoning for being such an introvert.
Faced with bullying and every human being such an a-- towards me, I feel I should capture all of those moments and just wisp them away into the inevitable oblivion that is the outdoors.  I would never dare take one tiny step out there unless I want to be thrown into a garbage can.  The ungracious gestures flaunted towards me I cannot take more seriously.  You have to understand sarcasm, they say.  Sarcasm is just a way of truly expressing thoughts in a way the other person thinks isn’t honest.  And how are jokes being “sarcastic?” Words still hurt no matter the chronological order of your words, or if you say it was a joke.  Sometimes I don’t understand people, and maybe that’s why people don’t understand me.
Now, I feel I should open up to this “personal hell” so I can find out why it’s me.  Why does everything people say seem to be directed towards the only person who doesn’t get jokes or sarcasm?  It almost seems like it was made just for me, like it’s a special role, it’s like being picked last in school games.  But do I care when I’m inside?  Hell no.
I open the door to my house, finally letting that scorching, effulgent sun pour over my pale skin, and it burns.  I take one step, and this whole new feeling comes tingling to my feet.  They called it “grass.”  I feel my heart beating faster and faster, and I start to run through this warm, overwhelming air that whizzes through my long, dark hair.  As soon as I hit my feet on this gravel-like, solid form, I stumble to the ground.  I look at my foot, and I have a pebble lodged in the heel.  As soon as I take it out, the first thing I see is a car, and the second, are the words: It’s a small world.