I’m a jerk.

I’m self-centred.
I probably don’t care about you at all. If I do, it’s only a tiny bit. I most likely can’t even be bothered to post something nice on your Facebook page on your birthday.
I’m good at finding problems with things. I’m good at fixing them too, but again most of the time I can’t be bothered.
When you’re talking about yourself I’m waiting for you to stop talking about yourself so I can talk about me.
I don’t like personal stuff. I like “issues” because issues are easy to ignore.
I don’t care about starving children and war and famine. I’m told I should, but I don’t.
I will remember every slight forever, even the ones you don’t realise or understand.
I will remember every word of praise, because it confirms my own sense of self-worth, not because I value your opinion.
If you can wring a genuine moment out of me, it will be short and bracketed with some kind of deflective humour. I don’t want to get in deep with you, because I don’t want to get in deep with me.
Your baby is annoying, your art is juvenile, your opinions are worthless, your partner is stupid, your inner thoughts are boring and not worth repeating, and you’re difficult to not dislike.
I’m anti-social and introverted when I want to be. I’m social and likeable and talkative when I want to be. Which isn’t often.
I want to be a better person as long as it doesn’t take any effort.
I can’t finish what I start.
I haven’t had an original thought in years.
I don’t deserve happiness, so you don’t either.
I think you’re inferior. But I also think I’m inferior.
I’m a jerk.

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