I Do Not Particularly Enjoy Your Company – And So I Will Send You This Letter.

Dear girl who (inexplicably) sat next to me at the youth convention,

I very well know that the only reason you ventured by me was because your BFF had sat with someone else, and the only other seat available was next to Doug, the aggressive, fake pseudo-intellectual who pretends to be uber-smart and anti-establishment so he will be liked, but achieves the opposite. And so, the only option was me, or a psychological analysis courtesy of Professor Doug. You took the easy way out.

There is a reason there is no human being but me within a three foot radius of my desk. I prefer to be alone. It’s not that I’m antisocial. It’s not that I suffer from chronic loneliness – I enjoy every second of it. And it’s not that I am one of those shy, inept girls who keeps to herself while mentally begging all the cool, hip youngsters in the room to come and make friends with her. You weren’t doing me a favor, and I couldn’t care less whether I am deemed “chic” enough to talk to.

Don’t misunderstand me, though. I wasn’t intentionally rude to you. I try not to be, but it appears that my behavior is constantly being misinterpreted. I didn’t talk to you at first because I am comfortable with silence, and because I did not wholly know what to say, not because I resented you for invading my personal “geek” space (a claim you insisted upon later). I don’t like to waste time with grudges.

Now, I don’t like to label, but upon observation I have come to the conclusion that you and I are polar opposites. You – chipped nail polish, pink pencil case, skirt pulled up past your navel, ostensibly so all the guys you imagine are checking you out can get a glimpse of your calves. Whatever. I don’t pretend to understand girl logic. I am the kind of person you regularly avoid, a nerd, but circumstances arose, and there we were, smiling weakly at each other.

I admire your attempts at conversation. Unfortunately, the first words out of your mouth were “I LIKE TWILIGHT! DO YOU? HAVE YOU READ THE BOOKS? ISN’T EDWARD HOT?” – and that just destroyed any attempts at civil communication we had. I suppose you thought every girl within the twelve to twenty demographic was automatically programmed to LUV TWILIGHT HEART N SOUL. You have found an exception to the rule. Congratulations.

I tried to shake my head, but you pressed onwards. After a not-so-riveting chat in which I pointed out some major plot faults in Twilight, and you called me ridiculous (best come-back of the century, by the way), we sat in silence. You were sullen, looking with contempt at my regular number two pencils, my buttoned collar and my non-designer-everything. I ignored you. You told me my digital watch was meant for boys, and I told you it was idiotic to place chronometric devices into categories according to gender. You started writing song lyrics into the margins of your book. I pointed out a spelling mistake (which, I admit, I did purely out of spite). You called me a grammar Nazi.

Things pretty much deteriorated from there, didn’t they? In retrospect, I think we would have gotten along if I had been less like myself and more glittery, pom-pom-adoring, aspiring cheerleader. But I would rather you detest me than I detest myself. Things have turned out for the best. Really.

After class you sniffed imperiously, stood up, snatched up your Prada satchel and gave me a venomous glance before marching towards the door. Your chin was up, your eyes half-closed – almost model-esque, as if you were half-expecting some Paparazzi to jump out of nowhere and start snapping pictures of you in all your irritated glory. I could barely stifle my laughter.

I trust we will not sit near each other again.

Yours,

Emma