Yeah, I’m not proud of myself.
Last Monday, I went to a college youth group meeting. I’m far more of a skeptic than most people there, but hey, free food, and sometimes people say hi to me. Real life social interaction.
There’s this guy there who has some kind of disability — probably autism. When he talks, you can tell he’s reading off a script in his head. “Hello (name). How are you? How was your weekend?”
Anyone who knows me well knows that “How are you?” is my least favorite question to answer ever. Those three words will immediately put me in a bad mood, because I know the answer you’re supposed to give is FINE and since I’m a mental case with terrible luck, I am more often than not NOT FINE.
I’m a really bad liar so it’s easy to tell that I’m not “good” if I try to answer for the sake of politeness. I’d rather just mumble an answer or ignore the question and hope people will move on with their lives. But this person kept getting in my face like a gnat. HOW ARE YOU. HOW ARE YOU. HOW ARE YOU.
And then I snapped. “I’m not answering that question. I HATE THAT QUESTION.” And I slammed the door and ran outside to hyperventilate a little.
I should have better self-control than that. I have the emotional intelligence of a child. I know.
I’m nervous to go back, free food or not. (I’m really broke you guys. I need the pizza.) Maybe I’ll just eat in the bathroom like I did in high school so no one will look at me, and realize I’m not okay.