Sometimes I wonder if I could succeed as a writer. I'm certain, if I ever was a writer, I would sleep until noon, be jittery from excess caffeine, and I would be fat.
I judge all of this from the 6 shots of espresso I poured into my system today, the fact its an hour past my bedtime and I am eating a delicious cinnamon roll while feeling the need to play the creative card, like every other twenty-something with a blog.
To my real point: I think people prefer to spend their time with people who care for them just a touch more than they care for the other people.
Today I studied with a friend whom I care for dearly. We have a good friendship; one where I am in awe with him and view him more highly than I probably should. I respect him, in the truest sense.
I was wondering today why we were such good friends. After a full day spent together, I wondered why he chose me as a companion. There were many people he could have spent time with, yet he ended up laughing over flashcards next to me.
Then it donned on me: he enjoyed being with me because I was enamored with me. Who doesn't want to spend time with someone who treats them like a genius? Who compliments you frequently, who values you infinitely?
Folding laundry while chatting on Facebook, another dear friend of mine began chatting with me. Ten minutes in, I realized just why I adored him so much: he cares for me far more than I do for him.
And there we have it: the foolish love of self cloaked in seeming friendship.
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