No one wants to be fucked up. No one actually wants to be the cute, little girl capable of making grown men cry; making insecure women develop eating disorders, drug problems, or killing themselves; or making decisions based purely from a twist void where a heart thought capable of functioning sat. No one wants to be that fucked up person. Anyone who proudly says that’s what they are, or who says it’s what they want to be, is full of shit. They are not nearly as badass as they think being an emotional ruin makes them out to be, or they are a sociopath. If they are a sociopath and they are playing on your sensitivity toward the broken, run. Literally, drop your purse, your cell phone, your coffee, drop whatever you have in your hand and take off running down the street like a person on fire.

I happen to be a fucked up individual, but I’m not proud of it. I don’t advertise it, and I certainly don’t think anyone should be like me. I don’t go out of my way to emphasize the fact that at the end of the day, I won’t care about you. Don’t get it twisted, I can be capable of enjoying the company of others, their friendships and such. However, unlike everyone else out there, it’s not a regular occurrence. It’s not something I need to have or strive to find immediately. Love isn’t something that exists in my world. Am I normal, no, but I’m not a sociopath either. Sociopath’s are the fucking worst.

They will literally feed you to themselves, just to spite the wolves if the wolves had shit on their doorstep. It’s not that they can’t feel anything, it just that they only look out for themselves. And if it’s between you and them, you’ll be done by the time you figure out something might be coming. All of this is a digression from the original point of my story, which is that no one wants to be a fucked up person. I was listening to this girl talk on the train the other day on my way back from Steve’s final resting place and she was one of those “fucked up girls.” Except, she wasn’t. Listening her talk was grating on my nerves. It’s harder to visit the resting place of your dead, sociopathic boyfriend than one might think. Anyway, there she was, standing on the subway, in her jeans, vintage crop top green plaid shirt, with a shitty black headband, crossover purse valued more than my last vacation, talking to her shorter, less attractive friend wearing a similar outfit and knockoff purse.

“So he came over last night, and we’re making out. He kept putting his hand up my shirt,” she says in between chomps of her wad of gum. She shifts her weight to her other foot and makes sure her friend notices how flat her stomach looks comparatively. “It just so happened that I put my new nipple rings in the night before. He thought they were so sexy,” she took a large breath in, wrapped her gum around her tongue and blew a bubble the size of a human head. Raising her dyed, and over manicured eyebrows, she continued, “He tried a few times to get into my pants, but I wasn’t feeling it. His cock was nearly bulging out of his pants, I accidently grazed it a couple of times,” she broke into a giggle, “but, he wasn’t that great of a kisser,” she complained with a sigh, jutting her hip into her friend’s arm.

“Didn’t you get a wax the day before, just because he was coming over,” her friend questioned while staring at the map of the city behind her taller friend’s head.

“Yes, Samantha,” the bitchy one explained with a verbal eye roll, before cracking her gum, “but that’s just what you do. Not that you would know,” she said patting her friend on the head. Her friend’s face flushed the same shade of red as her chucks.

“Oh, honey, not because you don’t have guys, just because you’re not fucked up. You care about guys. I don’t have any feelings,” she fluttered her eyelashes, threw her hand up, flicked her wrist, and giggled until her shorter, frumpier friend joined in.

I thought of Steve. Steve would have destroyed this girl’s entire life for having the audacity to be a person. It might not have been an immediate destruction, but the longer she went off spewing her attention-seeking lies the more Steve would have taken from her. First he would take her self-esteem. Then he credit score. Steve had a fondness for leaving people’s credit in utter devastation. It wasn’t to be mean, as he had explained once when he was living, it was because without good credit people like – insert target of the moment’s name – can’t fill in their lacking self-esteem with nice clothes, fancy cars, an elite gym membership, expensive meals or bottles of the boutique liquor stores finest. Steve, who had a multitude of issues, had a particular problem with other people faking or striving to have his burden in life. Being a sociopath was his thing, being a fucked up person was his girlfriend’s. There were just some things you couldn’t take away from Steve, I had been one of them.

“He just texted me,” the gum-chomping, dramatically indifferent voice of the tall girl pierced through my memories.

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