Closet misanthrope

Apparently I’m a nice person.

People I meet in my day-to-day life want to be my friend. They ask me out for lunch. They email me and want to get together to talk about their interest in the fascinating world of public relations. They wonder if I’d like to join their book club or if I’d like to grab a beer after work. Perhaps I’d like to go to a folk concert with them ― you name it.

I could have a very active social life if I wanted to. But I prefer to stay home where I’m free to be my true not-so nice self. I used to get asked on a fair number of dates as well but that has tapered off in the last few years.

I am cursed. I’m really not that nice.

I’m not, damn it. I’m one mean-assed misanthrope.

I was talking to my friend K. about this today. Someone I had only a marginal (to my mind) interaction with expressed an interest in getting together for lunch. I’m not really that interested in making new friends. I have a busy life and I like to spend my precious free time drinking vodka and surfing the interwebs at home.

K. asked me how nice I was to this person. I said I was just my normal work self ― “work-nice” I called it. Well that’s it she explained. My normal work-nice is just too damn nice. I give off friendly vibes and I better quit it or else suffer the consequences.

We practised some unfriendly expressions but I couldn’t muster anything as convincing as K. All I did was succeed in making her laugh in my charming way. I am a lost cause.


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