Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends
Usually I am a sucker for friendliness. I can’t be unpleasant when someone whom I secretly desire to impress or make like me is nice to me. Or talks to me. Or smiles at me. I want to be unpleasant and moody but I spend so much god damn time smiling and trying to be nice that when I am not people are offended. I should just always be a bitch, walk around in a huff and look down my nose at everyone.
I wish I could just be impervious to whispers and secretly hold inside my heart the disdain for everyone instead of feeling as if I will be crushed by sidelong gazes, silence and stares.
There could be this divining rod that would lift the skirt of all pretend friends and strike them with an itchy red rash all over the palms of their hands, some place impossible to scratch.
That would be sweet.