Don't brood, it's unbecoming.
I have a certain terribly unbecoming habit of inalienable trait: stuttering and making a spectacular ass of myself! I assure you, I do frequently make a spectacular ass of myself. And then I will, almost instinctively, foolishly vow never to speak again, hole up in my living quarters for several days standing firmly by my vow, and eventually wander outside into the world again after the feelings of intense self-loathing and embarassment (to an extent) have diminished or gone stale. I'll cross paths with people and gradually grate away their patience, entirely unaware that I have lost their respect the very day I thought I earned it at all. But that's what my redeeming qualities are for, silly! Fret not -- my sharp wit, winning charm, and irresistable magneticism compensate entirely, and then some! Oh wait, that may present a problem, seeing as I don't have any redeeming qualities -- only fatal flaws. I don't have any intellectual assets. That must be why I sit around and wonder why I don't have friends (and occasionally read books I hate which I commit acts of brutality against). If I weren't so critical of spirituality/the belief in a higher authority, I'd say some peculiar young deity were deriving pleasure from the irony of consistently rehashing one of the great self-evident truths of life to those who know it well -- the great self-evident truth being that at the end of the day, you have only yourself to rely on. Other people are fickle and can't be trusted. It doesn't bother me a bit. But I hope it bothers everyone else.

The more I get to know you, the more I grow to hate you. Remember when I noted that my relationship with people could be best described with the original (perceived) cleverism "The more I get to know you, the more I grow to hate you"? Well as it turns out, the feeling is mutual. Social interaction is like a game show. The overall effect I get from it is: Thirty seconds to prove you're worthy of this person's respect. Quickly. Chop chop! And before you know it, your thirty seconds are up, and you have failed. to prove. anything. and the peevish game show host is glaring at you with those taunting "chop chop!" eyes, because in The Life Game, there is absolutely no room for error.

You read me like a book. I hate that.
I've got people nagging me about my hair. NO, I will not change it, NO, I will not wear it up -- ughh, let me BE. I'm really touchy about my hair. We all have our neuroses, (perhaps I, more than you) and I think you should respect my wishes not to comply with your inane demands. And I refuse offer you any explanations or reasons or make any effort to convince you -- obviously I object for a reason, so drop it because your persistence will not wear away at my resistance. Don't push me; I don't respond well to being cornered!
And then I've got people challenging my refusal to have my picture taken. I'll..... probably evade you until I find some opportunity to sneak out the window in the bathroom. But you'll unwittingly have caused me enough psychological turmoil and internal conflict to last several days. I hope you're happy.

My life is funny. I should write a novella. But I won't. Because.... with my writing skills? God help us.