I am the most awkward person alive.
You know how sometimes at night, you’re about to fall asleep when a ghost like a child comes out of the darkness and giggles: Hey, let’s play a game called Most Embarrassing Memory! It’ll be fun! I’ll go first–do you remember that time in seventh grade when the school principal came up to you and held out his hand so you could give him the microphone back, and you accidentally shook his hand instead, for every single student and teacher in the school to see? Do you remember that? Because I do! Okay, your turn!
And your eyes kind of pop open, and your breathing elevates, and you have to force yourself to think of something else–anything else–nice things–some funny quotes or Dan and Phil or the Doctor or your ship or ANYTHING ELSE–so that vicious child of the dark doesn’t get the chance to remind you of any more embarrassing incidents. But you start cringing into your pillow, and you still remember some more marvelously embarrassing moments, all or most of which happened years and years ago and shouldn’t bother you at all anymore because probably no one but you remembers them anyway.
Because all of this happens to me. Too often. I have had too many awkward conversations, done too many awkward things, and tripped far too many times on my own feet in my life that I constantly think of that Tumblr text post: Man, this is the worst life of my life.
I just. Can’t stop the awkward. Because the awkward, it comes from within.
I guess you could say the most embarrassing things come from within, too, because I have expressed way too many of my weird thoughts to just too many people, which makes me completely terrified to speak at all, lest I say something really weird and blow my cover as an alien (or several, standing on top of each other) impersonating a human being.
I blushed like the sun when I was standing up on the podium, notifying my classmates of some mundane thing that had to with English. My cheeks, my forehead, even my EARS turned red. And I got chalk dust in my hair when I accidentally swept it on the stand while using it to cover the blush, so, very attractive, Grace. And my voice cracked a little. And I spoke way too fast. And I kind of rushed off the podium instead of living up to my name a little and going down gracefully.
I blush too much. My face turns “Chinese red”, that’s what my old class captain (the nosiest guy I have ever met, that listened in on every single one of my conversations, the prying jerk) once told me. Blushing + freckles? No. No. Just no. Not a good look.
I also kind of sounded insane when I was telling That Nice Guy Who Maybe Probably Kinda Liked Me But Hopefully Didn’t Because That Would Be Weird that I couldn’t accept his Christmas gift. I didn’t say it to him in a mean way, it’s just that I had run all the way to see him in case he left and I couldn’t tell him personally and I was out of breath and kind of gasping, and I was also speaking really really fast and staring at him because I was afraid he wouldn’t take it well (which he did, take it well, because he was a really amiable person and I’m not exactly a heartbreaker). I must have sounded crazy.
I was also an awkward loser in middle school (especially in seventh grade), because I bit my nails all the time and spoke really grammatically weird sentences and cried a lot and basically remained silent with everyone, because I had no idea what to say, when to say it, or how.
And…now I’m cringing all over again. I don’t even want to write anymore, in case I dig up some more potentially devastatingly painful memories…like all of the times I cried in middle school (that was a very teary point in my life, I cried a million times during my two years there) and the memory of my first day in school in Changsha, when I cried while walking home for lunch. Ugh, ugh!! I hate being this awkward! People on TV glorify awkward people as being endearing, and they kind of are, but it sure doesn’t feel nice to be one and remember all those horribly depressingly insanely embarrassing moments when you’re supposed to sleep. I wish I could just erase some of those memories from my brain–strike them out with a Sharpie, or cross them out with a big red pen, or wipe them out with a whiteboard eraser. I certainly don’t need them, and they don’t help me with anything at all. But alas, people can’t choose what awkward things they remember, and I shall probably be stuck with all these memories until the day I die.