Everyone has their niche. Some people are academic, others excel in sports. Art for some people is not only their escape but their staple, their identifying quality. There are some people you like to turn to for advice and others you go to for the good gossip. I know all these people personally, yet, I myself don’t fit into any one of these groups.
What’s my niche? Where do I fit into this world? I expertly put my foot in my mouth. Just call me
Lindsay Lohan said it best in Mean Girls: verbal diarrhea. Before I have a chance to think about what I’m saying, words are just falling out. They don’t usually make sense but they’re sure to offend someone. It might even be the academics or the jocks, the artists or the life coaches. Even the gossip queens (or kings) have a heart, have feelings that I can hurt, deflate, puncture in a matter of seconds.
Sometimes, it’s a gift. It’s liberating, saying exactly what you want, expressing what you feel at that exact moment. It’s like a diary, spoken out loud, the world harboring my secret thoughts. Each word tucked away, burned into people’s minds.
I complained about how annoying my mother was, always trying to butt into my life even though I knew yours was never around to even ask about your day. It was I who complained about how fat I felt even though I, well everyone, noticed the weight you put on this summer. Yeah, I gloated to you about how awesome my boyfriend was even though you had just caught your own significant other cheating.
“Did she really just say that?”
Yes, I did. I went there. But most times it’s a curse. It’s the reason you seldom come around. It’s the reason I’m not included in conversations. When you’re looking for things to do, I’m not the first person you look to for ideas.
Out of all the niches in the world, this had to be mine. It’s like being picked last in gym class, except this is real life not a sad excuse for physical education. It’s like sitting on the bleachers watching the big game but longing to be that star player who just scored the winning touchdown, goal, point. It’s like sitting on a bus, all day and watching as all the other passengers, taking a break from life for a few stops, get off, while you wait, pulling into the bus station. It’s being bottom of the barrel.
There is some good that has come out of this. How many of you academics can say that you successfully dislocated your hip, rested your leg along your back, swung you knee over your shoulder and fit your foot, all five toes, in your mouth, over and over again? Other than the jocks, how many of you can say that you’ve turned off an entire room with just one sentence? Some can call that accomplishment. I call it loneliness.
You can call it honesty or just me being blunt but it is I who can taste the mixed delicacy of gym sock and rubber soles with a hint of toxic nail polish. But I guess you’re all too distracted in your own little niches to dabble in mine.
“Just take the time to think before you speak.”
Easier said then done when you’re born this way. I call it my own personal birth defect. Even that is mildly offensive. There had to be a medical term for this, something more qualified than Lohan’s diagnosis. Because if there were, maybe I could get some medication. A tiny little pill that would subdue the part of me, cork my voice box for those few seconds it takes my brain to catch up. My mouth just works faster than my brain.
Some of you cheerleaders know what I’m talking about.
There I go again…