Don't desert me now.

The thing about me is, you have to get past a lot. You have a lot of defense mechanisms you have to get through, and a lot of protests and contradictions. I rarely come right out and ask for help, when it matters anyway, and a lot of the time, right after I do, I'll yell at you for helping me. You have to get past the brutal sense of humor, the pretentious indignation, the hostility and then, the tears. Some layers are omissions of facts and other layers are just downright lies. Some layers are truthful to the bone, some layers are just for show. And deep down, when you can get past the big hair, the glasses, the odd clothes and the sneakers, when you can get past the jittery stance and the gait and the high-pitched squealing voice, when you can get past the book-smart talk about nothing at all and the contemptuous snort at everything that is important, then there’s me. A little sad, a little happy, a little brave, and very scared.

The mismatched earrings, the autographed shoes, the childish whine, the chalk-stained jeans, the odd-sounding laugh, the charming enthusiasm, the nerd and the bimbo, the cheerleader and the loner, the musician and the mathematician, if you can get past that, it’d be great.

But if you could get past all that and still like me, still consider me a friend, still consider me a loved one, a family member or whatever it is I am to you now, then that’d just make it all irrelevant, wouldn't it?

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