The Dangerous Art of Blending In

by Angelo Surmelis

I’ve been known to eat at least half a dozen of them in one sitting. You’d think I’d be larger, but my theory is that the internal nervous energy I work so hard to conceal keeps my metabolism running on high.

Daydreaming is one of those things on my mom’s Sin List or Lazy List. So I try to get it in when I can.

I notice too much. Every little thing in a room about a person, place, anything, feels like it’s giving off a signal, like everything is trying to communicate with me. That’s why I love neat, well-organized rooms. There’s less noise and my head feels calm.

Mostly, I’m scrambling to do different things to please different people. I wonder what would happen if I only spent time doing what interested me.

“You don’t see what I see. Just look at him. Really look.” “I only see our son.”

The truth is, it’s exactly what I want but I’m so scared of wanting it and even more scared of actually having it.

Here’s the deal about never being authentically loved by your parents: The most fucked-up