I am a throwaway.

I am easy to give up. I am easy to get over. It is easy to believe the worst in me, and likewise that I am capable of the worst. No one knows who I really am, excepting the couple of close friends I’ve had since high school, another from Bradford. A very small collective of men that I’m grateful to know.

At one point or another, everyone I know seems to turn on me. I don’t feel things like everyone else, and I’ve come to understand that I don’t react to things the way that everyone else does. I grew up keeping myself to myself, a private persona for home, and have trusted very few people with that. Most of them have gone… my ex still speaks poorly of me to anyone who will listen. My own family has judged and condemned me. And still life goes on, and I wonder how long it will take for everyone else I care about to turn away.

I am a throwaway. I’m a throwaway son, a throwaway brother, a throwaway friend. If there is anything certain in this life, it is that at some point in time, you will become sick of me, resent me, leave me be. All my life I’ve moved, I’ve adapted, I’ve gotten used to it; I will do or say something that reveals some small true part of myself, and you will hate me. I’ll keep more to myself, and the world will keep turning. Maybe that’s the best I could ask for.

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  • About

    My name is Bobby.

    I write about random things a lot. I write a lot about random things.

    I write occasionally for Smashing Magazine and the London Community News online, and weekly for Interrobang, the student voice newspaper at Fanshawe College in London, Ontario.

    I've also been published by the Canadian University Press.
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