I'm an idiot...

Oh yes I am. I've got 25 minutes left in the day, I've finished all my projects, and now have time to ruminate on why it is that I'm so freakin' intense. I wrote last month that I felt as if I was walking around with no skin on, desirous of throwing paint on every white wall I see, just to throw some LIFE into people and places.

I simply don't understand people (in general). My friends are just as intense as I am, which is why they're my friends. They're perfectly lovely people, and they understand the chaos and drama that seems to surround me like a plague of locusts. Or a specially spiky aura. Thank goodness for my friends, who have the fortitude to withstand all onslaughts and torrents of tears and wild abandon, and the self-defeating bouts of ego deflation.

A man a long time ago told me he was usually too intense for the people he was with. Had him beat. Another man not so long ago told me that he could handle how I am, as long as I talked about what was wrong with me, and didn't let all that intensity fester. Ran with his tail between his legs. And for the fatal third time, even though I said nothing, the intensity of feeling that I apparently engender in people burns them alive and causes them to wither and turn to ash and float away. I did NOTHING. I held back even. They self immolate. They go and run with their hair on fire, searching for a nice bland little pudding of a female so they can shine better by comparison.

I suppose I'll just merrily burn in my little fire, a salamander in its native element. FEH. It hurts.