Being Miss Who
It’s not a joke being Miss Who.
I tell you, it’s downright disgusting not feeling how you’re supposed to feel. It’s painful having opinions and beliefs so weird and unsanctioned by the societal God (of the society, of the households that holds discussion rooms over lost safety pins).
It’s humiliating not communicating enough of anything – respect, love, hate, desire
It’s funny being young or old despite being either.
It’s infuriating not acting as people do, not talking as people do, not brushing your hair and giggling at lipstick colours, not striking up conversations with people just because you are related and not because you care to like them.
It is excruciating to feel that you cannot converse with just anybody. It is apocalyptic to realize you are handicapped in not wanting to, ever.
So be it.
we're ideating! 
It is downright painful not know what you are supposed to know, not feeling what you are supposed feel, looking at the social cues and failing to fit in despite following them all. Feeling like you are talking in a language that people around you cannot speak, so their chatter goes on, inane, banal and sometimes deep and meaningful, but you remain pressed against the window looking in, never being a part of them.
I know.
You know.
(cheers to that)