Meet Me, The Narcissist
According to the Webster’s definition, I don’t think I’m a narcissist. I’m full of more self-loathing and honesty than I am any exaggerations of my self-importance. I mean, I want to be important. Of course, I want to matter to people and the world. I wouldn’t be opposed to breaking the internet with news of my demise, should that day come. But I don’t think I have an excessive admiration or infatuation with myself. I do think I have value and talent and other things that make prevent me from being a total waste of flesh and drain on society, but those feelings are tempered. But I do hold grudges and I wanted to dig a little deeper into this
And here’s where I’ve landed. I’m a hypocrite.
When Ali, Casey, and I were in college down in central Illinois, we lived in this great place just a block off campus. It was situated at the top of a hill overlooking the town smack dab in the middle of Greek Row, snuggled between the Beta and SAE houses—a modest, three-bedroom house with a front porch and back patio, and yard that made it ideal for barbecues and other themed or not themed parties.