Personal Taste


“There’s always that moment, early in the morning, where I want nothing to do with the coming sun and everything to do with the blankets wrapped around me. I’m not an introvert. I’m not even depressed. I just like my own company that much. Narcissist? Nah. Well, maybe. I prefer, “Self-Expert,” or, “Curator of Personal Tastes.” I know. I know how buzz-wordy that sounds, but hey. Who can cater my likings better than, well, me? Some pricey girl that looks great on my arm, but can’t flip an omelet? No. Some less pricey personal chef who flips omelets with his eyes closed, but won’t do a photo op with me (and why would I want him on my arm?)? No. And don’t get me wrong. I didn’t mean pricey like a whore. Excuse me. Prostitute. I simply meant high maintenance. I digress. My point is that I am my own best company, and in the dull blue of pre-dawn, I am my only company. After that, my corner of the world wakes up to join me in competing to find out who’s best at what. What they don’t realize is that I already know that I’m the best… They don’t know me. They don’t try to know me. They just assume what they’ve got is the best of that particular thing, or that what they think I should do is really what I should do. So, no, I am not a narcissist. I just know what I like, and it happens to be me.”

John straightened his tie and blinked at the now-speechless reporter. The camera men stopped filming and a few crew wandered off.

“Now what?”

“Wouldn’t you know best, John?” the reporter quipped.

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