As it turns out, according to science, the most antisocial of us are in fact the readiest for adulthood. Take that, acquaintances.



In the jovial, yet gratingly accurate words of my partner: I identify as an SI.

Socially Inept.

I like the people I know, but I’d much rather not see them. As I’ve now climbed over the wall of adulthood (I have debt, and ennui) and into my thirties, I’ve noticed some changes. Particularly on the friendship front. That, and, I’m always tired. However, throughout my twenties, I was the quintessential social butterfly, the one that flapped its way around social engagements, the guy that everyone knew, or sort of knew. They knew my name, but I was unsure of theirs. Everyone was thereby labelled “Shags”. From that nadir, the insect has been pinned, placed under glass, as I’ve since crawled back into my cocoon. I’ve mistakenly diagnosed this as a regression; the re-emergence of the tween-angst me – the one who carried a skateboard but didn’t ride it, the one who misinterpreted the customer service of the drive-thru woman at McDonald’s, who registered my disappointment in the situation with Fanta meeting carpark…

I didn’t want to be that guy again, I hate that guy. You feel me, Shags?

Fortunately, sweet, sweet validation has ridden in on the sweeping Pegasus of scientific discovery. You see, according to science, this opposition to spurious social engagement is not only the key to adulthood (™) but is also, apparently, healthy for the upstairs furniture.

According to this supposition of scientists (collective term for a group of scientists – again, trademarked) the cull, from social media or otherwise, is a natural thing past the borders of your thirtieth birthday cake. The study (performed over a thirty-year spread) claims that quantity of social entanglements have true value in your twenties, however the flaming of those relationships carved on the flimsiest of reason is beneficial to your mental puzzle to prepare you for the coming decades.

So, the reason behind the phenomena of socially supported bridge-burning which plagued my late twenties, when the circle started to thin substantially, is actually quite simple: self-preservation through outright selfishness. I’m not judging, for I am in the same boat as ye, but I do not look forward to the auburn day, some indeterminate Wednesday in the future, when we are crinkled and enfeebled, as we’re wheeled into the same impossibly white room of the residency we’re to be kept in. As our eyes meet familiar eyes, our clouded brains flash back to the memory of a friendship being stripped away to nothing more than a vague familiar feeling of guilt.

Seeing as that is more truth than possibility, I shall spend every birthday of my friends’ between now and then deciding whether to wish them a happy birthday on Facebook.

Or not.

Bring on the awkies.


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