A Brief, Possibly Real Story 

I like to think you knew what you signed up for when you borrowed my pen. You knew that ink was the same as blood to me and I spilled it often. You were aware that optimism wasn't in my nature and I wasn't fond of shining brightly. Just constantly. I conserved the coil. No use wasting it on short bursts of illumination. I made sure you knew that I was a terrible introvert. I wanted to talk, constantly. I had so much to say about nothing in particular and about everything that mattered. But I didn't. Because I was a terrible extrovert. You were made aware that I wasn't particularly good at anything. Socializing. Not socializing. Speaking. Silence. The happy medium. Whatever the hell that was. I told you. Plainly. I suppose that was one thing I was good at: brutal honesty where my faults were concerned. You smiled then. Laughed in my face. Not rudely but with great disbelief. Because here I was, talking to you, and having hope (optimism if you will) that you'd take me as is. 

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