Nonrefundable

Everybody who knows me knows I am different. Yes, I am one of the few who acknowledge this about themselves, which in itself solidifies the premise of being weird to begin with. But let us all be on the same page as to how nothing in my world works out like it does for the rest of the world. For the longest time, I assumed I was just a small degree different than most others. Secure family ties, loving friends and social skills saw to that.

Then high school happened and the emotional poetry phase…ah, the poetry phase! Everybody was a cheating, scheming, lying sob, which makes sense considering I didn’t have any guy friends in my life then. And all women are all of the above, so my sample was skewed. I continued the poetry phase in college too, where the difference between my earlier sample of women and the new sample of honest, trustworthy, conscientious guys, made it effortlessly in to every rhyme of mine. This was the real world. It was a melting pot of emotion, drama and introspection.

But somewhere during that ’emo’ phase, I must have made a decision to never really learn from my observations. I sat there on my high throne (in the reading room of the library, if you must paint a little picture for yourself) and just drank in all the social data they was oozing out of every pore of their equally emotionally charged bodies. I learnt how world class liars are made, how goals can compromise ethics and most of all, how principles can be prioritized. Obviously i was the angry young man in all this and I righteously rebelled. But I never learnt to see patterns and predict the behavior of what would become my universe.

People young and old decided to step in and talk sense into me. Some in response to a teary eyed refusal to compromise and some others to a bullheaded dedication to the sublime art of the stubborn. There was always a strong voice in my head that told me I’ll be alright. And it was at it’s strongest when the others were screaming the loudest.

See, people like me, i.e. Unconditional rebels need unrest to survive. We will find unrest anywhere. When I say we, I mean I share a few tiny twitches of DNA with other people who are like me in this aspect alone. I have yet to find someone who is even 0.00000000142857143% like me. [Note: How to arrive at that number while completely straying away from the point so that your readers won’t realize you are building a case in which you systematically go on to prove you are the next incarnation of God – Calculation as shown below: One person / 7 billion people is 0.0000000142857143%. Now, the persnickety reader will notice one zero less in the decimal. So by saying that I have not found someone with this percentage of sameness to me is not enough. I need to emphasize that I haven’t even found a tenth of that. which could also mean I have non human DNA, but we’ll get to that in another century…cos that’s how long it’s taken you to read a freaking NOTE].

Anyhoos, getting back to the topic of unrest. When you were a teenager, like all teenagers, you had music, poetry, bad behavior, adults to yell at and a world wide definition of teenage angst to fall back on. Then you grew up. Well, almost all of you truly did. And you could not use your familiar ammo anymore. But the problems still existed in the ‘real’ world. People were still hurting you, you were still judging yourself and emotions still played a good solid part in your inner life and the texture of your skin and hair. So you acquired new ammunition. You developed a shield, you got smart, you listened and learnt how to hurt back and for the times that you could not protect yourself, you drank and smoked your constraints away. I say all this about you because I am not like that. And while I would give anything in the world to be like you…like any person with even the slightest bit of instinct, I don’t see it happening. My shields of armor can’t even be compared to a one day old human, that knows the sounds to make so it can manipulate some food out of the other human that hosted it for nine months.

We live in a world of super acceptance. Everyone is all about embracing yourself, being yourself because you were born this way. I like that thought, especially since the change is just not coming. But accepting that is like getting a defective product and never really knowing for sure if the store has a returns policy. And then there’s always the fear that I have run out of the credit period. I may be just too late. Those spare parts are being made no more. And I have seen these signs posted all over the supermarket of my recent forays. I tried coffee to calm my nerves like all the cool people (read anyone above the age of ten) do, but it only made me worse. I tried alcohol (mostly because the night life here is too cold to survive without some form of alteration of state of mind), it didn’t agree with me. All I shall say is that in all the documented side effects of alcohol, not once has anyone mentioned flatulence. Just saying. Apparently there’s an age limit for trying new crutches and I just crossed it oh say about a month ago. And so I remain, unsupported, unable to indulge my rebel/hippie quotient, unreturnable, non refundable.

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