I purposely don’t have many friends
I have 2-3 good friends at the moment, who I could count on for almost anything.For me, making and keeping friends is super hard. Clicking with one person out of the billions on earth and deciding to keep them around more often that all the others, and trying everything to make sure You and them are happy in this ever-changing relationship. Also, the sheer effort it takes to keep them around, and not try to kill them… is a hell of a lot.
My friends all live their own lives and have their own stuff going on. It’s difficult to see them, but when we do it’s like we didn’t even spend any time apart.
I’m the kind of friend who either lives with you and is in every tiny detail of your life; or who you see once or twice a year. I’m the ultimate in extremes.
I don’t understand the people who have a thousand ‘acquaintances’ … and can keep all of those relationships going at once. I find putting that much thought into more than half a dozen (or so) people stressful as hell.
I hate shoes.
Let me reiterate: Hate Hate Hate Hate Hate.
Given the choice, I wouldn’t put anything on my feet, ever. Shoes and Me have never ever gotten on, and I blame years of ballet classes for that. When I put a pair of shoes on, I instantly feel/see that; They’re too tight, too lose, bad heels, bad soles, make my feet ache, I’ll get blisters… etc etc.
I grew up (partly) in Fiji, Where every day you’d go to school and it was a rule to take your shoes off before entering a classroom … I shit you not!
Shoes make my life hell, and I detest them for that.
Church was never for me.
I went to a catholic school when I was very young, and so went to church with monotonous regularity. Almost immediately I began asking questions about God; Why they believed in him, What was the purpose of him… etc. The priest told me floaty answers like, “He exists because we believe in him.” and “All you need to do is believe, and you’ll know the answer…” (Clearly, he forgot to take his head out of his ass each morning…)
Eventually, the priest tried to take me into a class room and talk to me privately about my questions…in my lunch hour. Now, I’d been told plenty about stranger danger and all that.
I wasn’t about to go into a room with this strangely dressed middle-aged man, who liked taking sips from the Eucharist chalices before giving them to people, and looked positively drunk after each communion. I yelled, kicked him in the leg and bolted to the school office. I made such a commotion, that the school rang my Mum to come and pick me up early.
From then on, I was excused from the schools weekly trip to church and left in the library instead. I thought that was wonderful and proceeded to learn the Dewey classification system from the lovely old lady called Ethel who worked in the library. When She died about a year later, I was put in charge (unofficially) and worked there each afternoon until I left for secondary school.