He shoots daggers at me from across the room–no small feat when someone sits twenty feet behind you. I sip my coffee and look away, then back. He’s moved, now, sitting next to someone he judges as acceptable to his clique of one.
Wait…no one shuns me–or, at least, few have. I’ve always been accepted for whatever group I’ve tried to fit in to–it just happens, you know? You smile, ask a few questions about whatever the head of group X is into, and bam! New friends! This is an unusual occurrence, and unsettling. Is it because of how I’m dressed? My voice? Do I just exude that “bitch vibe?” What did I do to deserve such hate? Such judgment? It stings a little, this sense of rejection from something I never knew I couldn’t have.
Wait a sec…
“Look here, you spindly little mother fucker,” I think, “You don’t know a god damned thing about me. You don’t know that I used to play WoW 8 hours a day, or that I still love glitter to an almost unhealthy extent, or that I used to role play in fantasy chat rooms as Lectra (the ice witch who just happened to look just like me but with blue streaks in her hair) and her unwavering companion Necxt, the dark phoenix whose fire was cold and tongue sharp. Yeah, I said “Necxt,” mother fucker. And I privately pronounced it “next,” too, but when people asked me about it I put in a few throaty growls to add an accent to the name. I been doin’ that shit since before you was born, son.”
So fuck you, and your so-called nerd street-cred. You may have an account with it, but I have a god damned Roth IRA. Bearer Bonds of Geek, mother fucker, I have them. So step it up and climb down off that high horse–you can’t even reach the stirrups.