I’d like to think that I’m above hollow phrases of congratulations or insincere condolences. I wish I had enough sensibility to detest jargon of every kind, and abhor language that has been worn and hackneyed beyond all sense and meaning. But alas, I’m a fisher for compliments, and a sympathy whore.
When I tell you I’m sick, I expect the utmost attention and well wishes to get better. I want you to OOO and AHH at my achievements and lay accolades at my feet. That paper I got an A on, that just slipped out of my book and into your hands was no accident, my friend. I want you to feel my pain, and rejoice in my success; and if you don’t give a damn, well I don’t give a damn—pretend you’re sad/happy for me anyway! I purposely get haircuts twice a year, so that when I do, people notice. As I sheepishly accept compliments on my stylish new look, I’d in reality be sorely disappointed if you didn’t say anything at all.
Call me shallow. Call me conceited. Call me narcissistic. But only in your head. Because to my face, you better call me awesome.
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