Sure I don’t care if you like me
Jokes, always jokes are an armour of sorts. And smiling. And compliments. I have a fur encased hammer that I will bop you over the head with over and over until you acquiesce and say you love me. Say it! Say it I say.
Do you want a present? Can I help you with something? Do you need to be serenaded? I work so hard on the people who I am not sure of. Like running on a treadmill. Indifference would be a relief but there is no balm that can cover that need. That need to be liked.
I wish my desires would come out in gestures like homemade cookies, just a kind word or a favor like feeding your cat. It comes out all slutty and flirtatious instead. I might just ask you to make out. Which, frankly, I have come to realize is just a little bit scary but I can’t seem to help it.
That nagging notion that maybe it just some form of mental illness yet to be defined by a specific personality disorder won’t go away. It’s always in the back of my mind while I smile and cajole and wistfully wish that you like me, you really like me.