Don’t be yourself.

Sitting on the toilet flipping through some asinine magazine I paused at the headline “Are you the type of person who lights up the room when you enter or leave? “ I chuckled. I didn’t know. I never really thought about it. I wondered if I cared. I mean, people smiled at me politely when I entered most rooms or conversations. I had no fear of being avoided. I mean, did I really care. Fuck, I flushed what was a regretful lunch. I thought, I was most likely the latter. I was an asshole before I was an asshole, then I started drinking.

Most people say be you. I say fuck that. I say be somebody else. Be somebody cool. Be a politician. Don’t drink too much in public. Agree with everything. Be a follower. Cowards live longer. We wear clothes for a reason. Die a fucking mystery.
The day before I went off to college my eldest sister decided to give me some advice she thought would help me navigate my social life a lot smoother. It was one of those “this is what’s wrong with you” conversations that are often unsolicited and never appreciated. We were sitting on her bedroom floor, sipping banana daiquiris wine-coolers, painting our toe nails whorish red and giggling like Asian school girls when she suddenly paused and got serious. Or maybe her buzz finally kicked in. She looked me directly in my eyes and boldly demanded “don’t be you.”I laughed. I questioned if she had finally reached the limits of my non-conformed masculinity as I blew the paint on my toenails dry. She said when I got to college I should be quiet for the first couple of months. I asked her why. I hadn’t really been known to be egregious. I speak if I have something to say. She said I should try to get along as if I walk through the streets bitch slapping people. That only happened once. I felt my skin go cold. She said I was awkward and made others feel awkward. I asked her was that the reason she hit me in the head with a brick when I was seven years old.

To not be myself. To not be. Maybe that had been the problem my entire life. I wondered who I could be. I like the idea of fakeness. I did want to be one of those people who everyone invited to their parties. The life of the party, not the one who gets drunk and starts insulting people. I wanted to be the person who lit up the room and put smiles on other people faces. I wanted to be that person serial killers instantly wanted to eat their flesh.

Needless to mention, I don’t have many friends. It’s a conscious decision. I get tired of losing them every year. It’s like when I meet someone, it’s just a countdown to how long I can remain sane. Most people irk the shit out of me. I usually hold it in. I don’t tell anyone the truth. I try to avoid an actual opinion on any subject. I don’t care. I can’t be myself. I’ve learned if I am happy, everyone around me is miserable.

I walked back to my desk. I suddenly wanted to test the dim switch how I walked into rooms.

I figured the new receptionist could be my experiment. After all, she was a temp and after a couple of days, I knew I wouldn’t see that bitch again.
As I approached her, I felt like I was in some horrible 80s romantic film. I wasn’t trying to fuck her or anything. I wondered how I would break the ice.

“You have that curse. “ I smiled. I repeated, “You have that curse or maybe it’s a disease.” I thought she would get the joke. Was it a joke? I mean, a curse can sometimes be a disease or monster. She looked confused, mostly annoyed. I smiled. I questioned my motive but I waited until she decided to pursue my argument. She nodded her head. I followed with “I mean, it’s not a bad thing. I guess. I don’t have it. I personally wouldn’t want it.” I created more confusion. Her face soured into a “What the fuck are you talking about you crazy bastard!”

I get that look a lot. More than often. That, “are you okay” look. The last time I was myself, my dentist tried to put me on antipsychotics.

“Don’t be mad.” I wanted to stop the sentence or backspace and delete. I felt my light go brutally black like somebody punched it with their bare fist and the blood ran to the surface and froze to die with oxygen. I told her she had that face that was welcoming. I told her that I just read some fascinating article about people who light up rooms or some bullshit like that. I told her people not only liked to greet her but tell her all their business. Like a bartender but with no drinks. I figured it was a curse. I mean she couldn’t be happy with looking so welcoming. I didn’t want a face like hers. I didn’t want complete strangers telling me about their STDs or infidelities. I thought she laugh. She didn’t. She looked around her personal space for a security guard or pepper spray. I knew she was lingering on the word “curse.” She said she was just being herself.

I felt he light dim as I walked away. Or did it get brighter.