I should self-diagnose myself.

My problem has never been that I'm incapably un-relatable, not that I'm unable to make a great first impression. To be quite honest, that's not the issue at all. I am the queen, the freaking empress, if you will, of first impressions. I am flawless with phrases, a word smith at least. I charm the pants off of everyone I meet for the pure reason of my innate desire for social acceptance.
See, first impressions are certainly not the problem at all. My problem is that I have this nuisance of a notion in my head that I'm nothing less than a child prodigy. That I'm Ivy League. What's worse is that I even think of myself as the type of person who is such a sick little prophet of some sort, that upon arrival at an Ivy League school, I'd be disgusted with the sheer collegiateness of it all. This never fails to result in my making some crass remark about the farceness (is this even a word?) of the whole universe, and people, for some odd reason or another, take this offensively. My problem is that I'd lay around all day sobbing about a lack of companionship in my life, but once I get it, I decide I'm a tragic little martyr for pete's sakes.
I'm much too freaking romantic to be anything but the mysterious and tortured lone wolf. Acceptance get's old on me, because I'm too much of a skeptic, and I like loneliness, because I believe in my heart of hearts that I'm freaking Socrates or something.
I always have some cause or purpose or torment like I'm some kind of saint.
What I fail to realize is that I wasted two of the years I could have spent trying to achieve collegiate success on forming the dreams of a nesting house-wife, on a guy who didn't know his mouth from his butt. What a waste.
What I can't see, is that I'm not really some revolutionary smart-alleck, but just another punk kid who's wasting her life away at Jr. College, so that she can get knocked up or some crap that always happens to child prodigy wannabee's.
Even still, I'm drinking, simply reveling in the fact that I've caught three people already this morning staring at me while writing all this bs out. I think they're thoroughly just riveted by my copy of Franny and Zooey (which is greatly aiding to the tone of this entry) laying next to my arm, and they're simply drawn to my pulsing wisdom, like a sick little nut being sucked onto a magnet.
The fact is, I probably have something on my face, and they're just staring out of pity for the way I've embarrassed myself. They won't remember me next semester when we're in class, and I charm their programmed little butt's off, only to show them how much of a farce even I am. It's all because I'm just a bloody little martyr, with a sorry little cause, and that's the way I like it.
So maybe someday, I'll meet a person who's a little saint like me, and we'll charm each other's faces off, and laugh at the whole world in our "lonewolfism" and all their freaking farceness.

I doubt it though.