I Forgot How To Spell My Name By The End Of This Entry.

Something about moving out of my house where I live with three other people, and living in a room with just me and one other person whose existence is not entire dependent on my own, made me realize my aptitude for living by myself. Unfortunately, I enjoy it much more than I probably should.
I have always had a abhorrance for depending on other people. I don't know why, because its not like anyone ever went out of their way to teach me this. I was taught, growing up, that different people have different skills and needs and that working with other people makes life not only easier, but more pleasant because you're not alone. This message apparently flew past me, and I waved to it as it did, wishing it a pleasant journey into the heads of every other living soul that I knew.
My tendency lately is to blame the anxiety for a few of my weirder intricacies. I do this mostly because people seem to feel better about me if I can tell them why I do weird things. The truth of the matter is that Yes, I have an anxiety that makes me basically want nothing to do with most people because unless I know you or you pass some sort of "not a creeper" test. But I am fairly certain that my constant need to be an independent as I can, my hatred of large groups of people (group dynamic is probably one of the largest causes of idiocy known to man), and the complete enjoyment I get from only having to take care of myself without having any consequences on other people, is probably just my own weirdness.
I'm sure at this point the image I have painted for you is one of complete selfishness. Maybe it is, but it isn't that I don't want to take care of other people. Generally, I don't mind that. I just hate when other people have to take care of me, because I don't want to have to impact someone else's life with one of my million idiotic tendencies. I'd hate to think I brought someone else down with me, you know?

Please note: These word are the ramblings of a very tired, unfed, cold person... written earlier in the morning than this person usually even crawls out of bed.

Much love,
Sarah Elizabeth