I am not the most “counter-narcissistic” person as I appear to be. Actually I am the WORST KIND OF THAT LOT!
My fayboo posts are quite private, I don’t often post status updates, my instagram isn’t filled with selfies and the number of my daily tweets is hardly over 5 most of the days.
On the surface, for a 25 years old person, I am quite “non-narcissistic”, right?
You Sir, are TOTALLY EFFING WRONG!
I believe those reality show celebrities are less narcissistic than me. And actually I am the worst kind. They are a bunch of narcissists and they admit and own it. I am the one who pretends to be otherwise and tries to make the statement that, “I don’t care”.
But I sure do.
Well, yes, I don’t care if my hair is out of place or not, or I don’t give a shit about makeups and clothes.
But I care. I care for my image, I care for my appreciation of myself, I do give a heck ton of shit to the fact how “cool” I am appearing to myself. I take selfies and webcam snaps a lot posing with my buck teeth because I think “posers” make duckface. But my ultra narcissistic brain fails to register that showing buck teeth is a personalized brand of “duckface” and I am nothing but a closeted poser as well.
Actually I am a poser who is also a giant fucking hypocrite. I am shit scared that I won’t be as “cool” as I thought I am and constantly check my “coolness” level.
Yes, I don’t want everyone’s attention. But I am not free from the vice of liking attention. I want attention from certain individuals. Worse, I also want certain group of people to hate me. And when a bunch of them don’t hate me and actually appreciate me, it drives me mad!
What did I say? It’s way bloody worse!
So, when I take a peek under the hood and see the true burned to scariest texture possible part of myself that juxtaposes the seemingly “cool” and “not giving a shit about stuff” self, I don’t cringe.
I find an odd sting of thrill. A thrill sprouted from guilt ridden sadistic madness.
I am a threat to my own sanity. And I am a threat to the face of truth.
And this piece of shit (blog) was a poor attempt of making an excuse for this said trait of mine by admitting it.
If I were a dog, I’ll be put to sleep by now.
And I love how incoherent my writing has become! \m/