I've never realized how insanely self-centered we as people are. Okay, amendment: I've never realized how insanely self-centered I as a person am. I've noticed it in pretty much everybody else, but it's taken me years to see it in myself.
Background to this epiphany: I've got a P.E. class first thing in the mornings, which is bad enough by itself—it's full of sophomore boys who have to make dirty jokes about everything, bother the teacher as a hobby, and pick fun at that sickening gay kid who sits in the back and tries not to be involved in any way, shape or form. (Three guesses, folks!)
So. Today we were doing warm-ups and stuff, and the teacher left to get the equipment (a giant inflatable neon pink ball—I know, I want one too). The minute she rounded the corner we all stopped jogging and started chatting, as usual. We always sit down in little clusters and gossip about random stuff. Later, when we were actually getting ready to play the game, I noticed a crumpled piece of paper lying on the ground. Nosy person that I am (something I desperately try not to be, as my mother is one of the nosiest people I know and I make a point of not being like her) I walked over and picked it up. Imagine my surprise when thick pencil streaks stare up at me: "That kid wants to have sex with me."
Ego enters, stage left. I had absolutely no evidence that the note was about me. There was no name, no indication that I was involved. And yet, I immediately glanced around to see who was talking about me behind my back. (SIDE NOTE: By this point I am so used to people talking behind my back that it rarely bothers me—that is, the talking doesn't bother me. I get irked to no end when people discuss my faults or whatever. If somebody has a problem with me, they should be brave enough to talk to my face where I can either justify their doubts or politely tear them down. Okay, rant over.)
Maybe it was the handwriting. I realize I'm stereotyping, but no girl would write so over the place. Even if they have not-so-neat handwriting, it's at least legible and much perkier than guy's handwriting. Or maybe it was the wording. That kid seems like a derogatory term, up there with that couch. That old thing. "That old thing? Oh, that kid spilled something on it. I've been meaning to get rid of that couch."
And all of a sudden I remembered I think everything is about me. That group of girls whispering in the hall are talking about me. The kid who makes eye contact for a split second and starts chatting with his neighbor, he's talking about me too. Everybody's gossiping about me. Everybody.
No. No, they aren't. There's more interesting, not to mention recent topics than me floating around the school. I came out a year and a half ago—that's not exactly a recent event. I wore the GAY shirt six months ago—once again, not a recent event. Besides, what's there to talk about with me as the subject? "Oh my god, that kid is so gay." "Oh, I know! We've got PE together and he's always reading something." Wow. Nothing new there. "Did you see that kid?" "Yeah, he pierced his ears!" Me and everybody's dog seems to be doing that—though they're all clones of each other, with their square diamond studs and their gansta speak. Really, I'm not that interesting of a topic.
Anyway, as a human race we really need to get over ourselves. As much as we like to think so, not everything is about ourselves specifically.
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