I only just met you and I don’t even remember your name. I do not need to know your life story. I don’t need to know how you had mono during your prom or how your mom cried on your shoulder when you were 12. These are things you don’t normally tell people you’ve just met.
I have my own sad story, like I’m sure anyone who has lived at home for far too long does. I do not find the need to tell you the fear I felt coming home each day. I do not feel the desire to express the first time my heart was broken or any time I have cried. I do not want to tell you that I was forced to grow up too soon.
Why, then, must you tell your story? Hands moving and your definitive tone, your anger at the entire world in your voice. I have enough anger, I don’t need to express yours. I have too many stories to give you the pity that so many want to give. I have never wanted anyone’s pity. Why would you? I can’t add another sad story to those I’ve already heard. I can’t deal with your anger because too many other people are too angry for me to understand it all.
