h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

I walked around the lake.
When I was about to leave Tom insisted I don't get mugged, or attacked, that I come back. I laughed. Sometimes he becomes so worried when I go out on my own he goes out looking for me, scolds me when he finds me, like I was a naughty child.

I don't respond well to this type of care. When I was a kid I realized from books and from friends that nagging concern is to be expected from your parents, especially your mother. My mother was never like that. I can't remember her ever telling me to wear a hat when it was cold outside or to watch for oncoming cars before I cross the street. She started first when I was a teenager, 16, 17 years old. She told me to be careful and I was overwhelmed by rage. I shouted to her that she had never been my mother before so why should she start now.
It must have been hurtful.

I laugh at Tom, can't take anyone's worries seriously. I walk in the darkness and I see myself being killed by a stalking madman. I imagine myself fighting. Some days I win, some days I die.
I walked and watched the reflections of the lights in the water. I walked past couples softly talking to each other. I walked trying to understand; some types of people are attracted to me, I think because I give off an air of acceptance. I listen, I tell them about me. I don't put people off unless I dislike them (usually when they possess characteristics I envy). I don't care about physical appearance, I don't mind queerness or stupidity. I am queer and ugly myself and I know how much it hurts to be judged by it.

But I laugh at them, make fun of them, sometimes because their annoy me, trying to take more of my attention than I am willing to give, or because they "abuse" my generosity. I never laugh to their faces. I am false all through. I secretly despise people and betray my own ideals, my own need to be accepted when I betray their trust and friendship.

I wonder if anyone ever sees through me ever and if they think; "if she does that to that person she might do it to me".

The truth is I need it. I need the shallow admiration, and I need the effortless love I receive. I give them a run down of my day, and collect remarks I later can amuse myself with in other company.

I don't feel anything other than this sticky melancholy. I am hollow. I hate what I am.