You won't like me. The things that come across so well on paper, the funny obsessive qualities that show up so well in self-mocking text, you won't like this so much in person. You'll think it's crazy, neurotic, annoying. You might not like me already.

I won't like me in person. I won't like how I talk about myself, won't like the way I constantly fidget, I don't see that on paper, on screen. I won't like how I am ambiguous about whether I self-deprecate because I have self-esteem issues, or whether I self-deprecate because I am fishing for compliments, or whether I self-deprecate because that's just what hip people do. I won't like my love/hate relations with hipness.

You won't like me. You won't like the way I glare at you as if you're stupid. You especially won't like how I deny that I think you're stupid because I hate accepting the fact that I think anyone is stupid, but, well, I do.

She won't like me. She won't like how I don't work as hard as she wants even though I claim I'm a workaholic. She won't like how I need to multitask, won't like how I look distracted even when I'm concentrating, won't like the way I am always listening to someone something else at the same time. She won't like my casual approach to everything, despite all my expressed claims of seriosity. She will think I am blowing her off.

You won't like me. You won't like how I put down even those I feel affectionate towards because I can only give shape to compliments by vocalizing the space around them.

He won't like me. He won't like the disaster area of my room, the contradictions between wanting a loving caring pet and owning an iguana, the way I deliberate crazily about major life decisions and then end up flipping coins, how I bite my lip.

You won't like me. Go away.