It’s happening again, oh gods help me.
Y’see, I have a nasty habit of turning away from people who are on the verge of becoming permanent to my life in all but name and presence, and lately I can feel the last vestiges of patience falling away when it comes to dealing with a certain friend—everything, from the eternal scowl to the annoying grumbles to the (oftentimes alarming) silences, is really getting to me and I’ll be a pucker-faced puffer fish before I say I’m not lying about how preposterous and snooty I find these mannerisms. The problem, of course, is me: I can’t help it. While I love all my friends, there is always just a certain level of intimacy that I keep only for the [extremely] few people who manage to flay me and sew back the skin from the inside, and while that may not be the classiest and most effective way to put it, I currently have no fucks left to give. I am panicking.
Because the last time this happened was six years ago, and I have completely forgotten how to deal with the version of me that comes out during these times of great duress.
It usually starts as a really nice, happy-go-lucky friendship where I try and make the most of it and deal with the person the best way I can. I’m not the most patient person one could ever hope to meet, but as far as my current circle of friends’ track records are concerned, I’m probably in third place (or second, really, but never first) as Kindest and Most Willing to Put Up With Your Shit. This makes me considerably nicer than most, because my niche is — and I mean no offence, but the truth must be spoken here — a nest of beautiful creatures who will bite anyone who pushes their buttons a little too much (read: strike one). So believe me when I say I am panicking because I don’t want to do this to that friend and that friend will be smart enough to know that it’s happening. Or maybe not. I’m putting my faith in that friend’s often lack of interest and hope it works to my advantage this time.
Oh gods, I talk too much.