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Here goes no mercy.

"Eh," I said. "I wouldn't." He whipped around in his seat to glare at me. "Seriously, dude?" I shrugged. "I don't know, man." I said. "I'm not into that. She's not my type." He tossed his hands up. "What," he asked. "She's hot?" I sighed. I've never really enjoyed those conversations. Not with the company I held, I suppose, but also in general. It feels out of place. Improper, I guess. But maybe not that. Maybe just frustrating, trying to make your point. "No," I said. "She's just..."

"She's not your type?" His girlfriend chimed in.

He laughed. "Oh, I have a type?" I asked. "Yeah," he said. "It's girls who are actually guys." "Yeah," she said. "I know your type. Blonde, tall, way too skinny. Artsy or indie, kind of punk-ish. Into music you don't like. Unfriendly." I fought back the reflexive denial so I could hear her out. The more she went on, the more I thought and realized she was actually doing pretty well. My face must have given it away. "Did I pretty much hit the key points?" She asked. "Damn." My friend said. "She got you." She sat back in her seat, smirking.

And I used to be so good at hiding that.

It's just kind of funny, I think, how people can get comfortable. With each other, mostly. Enough so to make assumptions and draw conclusions about them. Regardless of accuracy. Sometimes it's because they feel like they always need to have input on everyone, acquaintances and strangers especially. Those are the worst types. Sometimes, though, it's because they're just good. They can look through a person and see motives and logic and reasoning. They just understand what's going on in those jumbled, muddled thoughts well enough to explain them better than the thinker.

Those are also the worst types.

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