Struggles of an Extroverted Introvert

Every once in a while I am hit with a midnight martini epiphany. Last month I came to the conclusion I don’t really think the show ‘Friends’ is funny. The month before I made a short-lived vow to only buy local produce. Last week I convinced myself all this Amanda Bynes drama is a genius hoax on the public for a majorly well-concealed documentary premiering at Sundance a la Joaquin Phoenix.

Last night, I finally got a grasp on the complexities of my personality. I like to dramatically categorize all things in my life especially types of people. Optimists and pessimists. Bitches who make nail appointments and those who only do walk-ins. Team LC or Team Kristin. People who caption photos with song lyrics and those who would sooner eat a deep fried puppy. The pimps and the hoes. Bitches that like Michael Kors accessories and those who think it says “I’m settling for mediocrity”. Life is so much easier to navigate when you can put things in a clear container with a label.

At the end of the day there are really only two kinds of people: introverts and extroverts. In life, I tend to live in black and white so it has been a constant struggle to identify with such a strong shade of gray. What gray you may ask? Because I’m an extroverted introvert. It wasn’t until recently (last night) that I realized I am the ultimate union of both. Attention gives me fuel. Not in a daddy issues, lady of the pole way. I hate when people ASSUME that people who love attention are insecure. Some flowers just require more water to bloom.

Growing up, I participated in every fucking activity I could weasel or bribe myself into. Plays, lip-sync competitions, talent shows, pep rallies – you name it, I was there, front and fucking center. Obnoxious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

My first week of middle school I did a painful rendition of “Hey Mickey” during a lunchtime assembly. People threw their lunch at me (I will never look at Domino’s breadsticks the same again) but I held my final pose with my pom poms in a high V, grinning like a winner #nailedit. Sure, I had enough marinara sauce in my hair to feed the Giudice’s for the entirety of Tre’s sentencing, but I was working my shit and it would make for an amazing tale for my E! True Hollywood Story: ‘Bitches, They Are Just Like Us’.

So one could easily assume I am the most extroverted of extroverts. But much to many’s surprise, I am colossally private. I will discuss my digestive system to anyone with a pulse and ear canal but would rather shoot myself in the asshole than discuss anything emotional.

Ever since I was young, I have had this inner dialogue in my head where I am able to sort my inner struggles solo. WebMD may diagnose this as bipolar, but I would just call it having a great sense of self.

I have literally never cried in public. Not sad tears at least. It’s a real shame because crying is a good look for me. My eyes turn this really pretty shade of teal and the tears sitting on my cheekbones give my complexion an unreplicable dewy look. It’s fucking fantastic. Now, in the privacy of my own home or with selected group of bitches I will cry at a Sylvan commercial… dumb kids who need homework help really tug on my heartstrings.

I also have total social anxiety. My hypnosis therapist has assured me this is a control issue and I am uncomfortable in any situation I haven’t carefully crafted. I won’t even go to a restaurant without reading the menu and RAPING the place’s Yelp page.

One could over analyze this and try to associate my introversion to some childhood trauma but that just isn’t the case. To put it very simply, I have always enjoyed being alone. I am the most entertaining person I know. Does that make me an asshole or a complete psychopath? Probably both, but I will discuss that with myself over sushi later.

Sometimes I am an extrovert, sometimes I am an introvert. There is a huge likelihood that I am bipolar. There’s no question that I am neurotic. I wear sequins while home alone and can be found in bed by 9:00PM 87% of the week.

Spontaneity is a personal myth and I have about 8 fully choreographed dance numbers ready to go at any given second. I don’t cry in public but will let a homeless person cry on my shoulder as long as I am not wearing something that’s dry clean only. I own my shade of gray. And am proud of it. And to all my extroverted introverts HAYYYYYYY!

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One comment

  1. Great rant. Can totally relate, and this bitch has been at it for a loooong fucking time!
    Who needs 50 shades when we already found our ONE! #graymatter

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