I am a loner of sorts. I hug the wall when the silent buzz of alcohol flushes out of me and I come to the realization that I am nothing. My epiphany is sudden; I collapse as if my strings were snipped and I sit down, deflated as I watch the parody play out in front of me. She pretends to laugh, he pretends to listen, her eyes run up his arms, his eyes follow the twist of her hips, I observe the play before me, I am scientist of sorts, I swear it. The experiments run smoother when I am less involved. I am unneeded, which is a pure shame. If I were to die today, wither from disease, expire like milk, disappear in the air like a fading mist, would anyone truly care? You care, you claim to. It is clear through the frustration tinting your eyes. You ask me questions like why? and how? but I smile and watch in pity because you failed, just like they all do. A social butterfly, I am not. I can be when the timing is right, the alcohol hits my system and the lights are dimmed just right, but when the environment is hostile to a mercurial being like me, I become lost in myself. I become the purest form of myself when no one is looking. Answers are given before questions occur. I bite my lip, not in tease or jest but genuine curiosity. You may ask me question on one of these forsaken nights and receive a rare answer devoid of false cheer and precarious enthusiasm. I despise social interactions that are not true. It’s a game we millennials play: let’s pretend we are not freaking about the war in ourselves and smile and bullshit until the last round is called out. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. Do you ever get the urge to scream, “STOP THE BULLSHIT?” I do. That is why you can catch me, a pretty little thing, silent at a bar, lights dimmed and eyes brimmed with disappointment.