Miss Loner's Dumbarrassed Autobragography Analysis

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1 Miss Loner’s Dumbarrassed Autobragography
I was twenty-six. Till then, I had positively accepted myself as a lonerexual. I don’t have much to say in this case. And think. And discuss. All I know is I must resist the temptation to divulge what had made me a recluse and human-repellent woman. I better not give you the wrong side of the stick first. Besides, my parents wouldn’t like to read that either. They are depressingly optimistic about me and the great things I’ll achieve in my life, though I keep them worrified most of the times. My parents, I tell you, are always depressingly optimistic, especially my mother. She is a severe case of optimistamania. My brother wouldn’t disagree here as he is facing that weary load too. He is in Paris,
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We suffered from some sort of financial anemia or something. Anyway, it would have been a loner’s retreat, you know, living all solo dolo in some unfamiliar environment. But that never happened. And things that never happened shouldn’t find a place in one’s introduction. I mentioned it anyway. It all came out of awkwardness I feel when I meet new people or when I am about to reveal something, I guess. Something that is important to me. Otherwise, I am always a conversational sponge. I listen to people and never contribute to the powwow. This habit started off as a trait to avoid quarrels, but it ended up being who I am. It’s nothing that I regret except when meeting new people. But I make it up with my wordsmithery. I’m a Wordsmith goddamn it. That’s what I like calling myself. Never for once hesitate to be wonderamazed with the words I’ll be using. It is not an autobragography to come out clean with you. I know what the title reads, but it is not. And I believe if I wrote one it will be as dull as dishwater. So the best way to introduce you to my life, which had no astounding elements, is to tell you about my several encounters with the loonies. The place this word loonies takes me is my office and that bizarre day in…show more content…
They were standing practically right opposite to me. All the while I was at my desk, writing something and getting my ears sore with their giggles. Magpie Doe, the girl who shares my desk, wasn’t listening to them. She would practically never listen to anyone. Not that she had deaf jam or something. It’s just that she never gave-a-fuck-o-meter to anybody. I wish I could be like her, though she is sourpuss sometimes. That time, she was busy arranging superheroes dolls at the desk’s corner. She would eat, sleep and breathe with superheroes, and it kind of showed in her zero cool collection. My only reservation with her obsession was she displayed her collection in the office. I mean I have a stellar collection of books but I never laid out an exhibition for people to know that. You can’t blow your own trumpet, unless you are some gloating butt-faced musical idiot.
Sweat Tank kept his evil eye on my desk. Noticing at our impassivity to the ongoing discussion, he called me in his cabin. He didn’t call Magpie Doe, but me. Only me. Sweat Tank’s cabin can scare the living shit out of even the most stalwart guardian. Anyone would turn into a runaway freak then and there. I suddenly felt like eating ice cubes. I am quite heavy ice eater on every day of every season. Pagophagia. That’s what I suffer from. The urge increases when I am nervous. This habit has got me blah numerous times. Otherwise,

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