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I’m used to it by now. How couldn’t I be? The looks, the sneers, whispers you’ve thought I couldn’t hear. Well, I could.
Of course I know I’m different. I’ve lived with myself my whole life—shocker, isn’t it? I would have to have much less intelligence than I possess to not realize how estranged from others I really am.
You pass snide remarks about my clothes. I apologize that I haven’t worn the “in” clothing that you always do, which tends to cut off your circulation. But if it’s popular, and it’s pretty, you decide it’s worth the discomfort. I never thought so.
My mind—it must run on a different station than everyone else’s. Maybe I’m like Bella. I’m on FM while everyone else is on AM. Or maybe I’m just not tuned into the radio at all.
I don’t feel the need to speak the way you do, laugh the way you do, flirt the way you do. I see a guy, and I may note if he looks cute—nothing more. I feel no urge to run up, giggling and flashing to him, and start picking on him in a way that somehow is supposed to indicate that I like him.
Sure, I’m more intelligent than most, perhaps all of you. I can’t help it. I don’t like it. That doesn’t change anything. But the intelligence isn’t really what matters. Yes I thought so, for a while. But there are others who are intelligent, and they get along just fine…no, that’s not it.
It’s me. I see the world differently than you do. And I like the way I see it. I’m not about to change my views because of some of humanity’s strange notions.
Why do you cover yourself in those foul-smelling chemicals and pastes, that make you look more like a piece of art than a human being? I simply don’t see the appeal. You look down on me for this. I really couldn’t care. Must I make my curly brown hair curlier? My bright brown eyes more vivid? My long, dark lashes more emphasized? I don’t see why. I look fine the way I am.
I talk funny. That’s what you always tell me. I talk like an old person. Not really. Just because I choose to use larger words, am I incomprehensible? Doubtful. You just want something else to tease me with. You’ve got it.
No, I’m not a teacher’s pet merely because I answer the questions you seem too busy to care about, or because I speak to them after class occasionally. So what if I’m a writer? It’s really none of your business.
You know what? I used to care. I used to cry. I cry not only when I’m sad, but when I’m angry, did you know that? Of course you didn’t, you never cared enough to find out. But I don’t cry anymore. If my eyes are over-bright, it’s because I’ve just gotten an idea. One that you’ll never have. Or maybe it’s just because I’m comfortable with myself—which is more than you can say.
So I’ll keep my strange clothing, my strange views, my unadorned face, my way of speaking. And if you don’t like it? Too bad.