When I’m out dancing, I usually wear a hat and keep the brim low. I avoid eye contact for the most part.

Last night, I made the mistake of looking up.

An acquaintance approached me.

“I feel like my break up with [girl] has come between us,” he shouted over the music. “Is that why we’re not friends?”

I looked at him. “No,” I said, shaking my head.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with [girl]?” he shouted.

I shook my head again. I’m not that close with [girl], either.

He tried again. “So, we’re not friends because you just don’t like me?”

Why lie?, I thought to myself.

“Pretty much,” I shrugged, trying to make it clear that it wasn’t a big deal. “You can’t like everyone. I don’t dislike you.” He nodded and seemed to get it. Or maybe just wanted out of the conversation he’d started.

See, I just don’t like spending time with everyone I meet, and I expect the same in return. I’m not going to click with everyone, and not everyone is going to click with me. And I’m not into wasting people’s time with social graces and fake smiles at clubs. If someone approaches me and asks point blank if I like them, they deserve an honest answer, don’t they?

This coldness, this social particularity isn’t something I’m especially proud of, but I’ve come to accept it, and accept the accompanying negative results. Maybe it’s because I’m an only child — I’d rather be by myself than socialize with people who I don’t click with. Maybe it’s because I’ve grown cynical and distrusting — sometimes I can’t help but wonder what someone wants from me, why they’re making such a fuss. Or maybe it’s just because I’m a bitch.

Probably the latter. I’m not proud of it, not making excuses for it, but also not apologizing for it.