Has anyone ever told you that they are a ‘people person’? Have you ever met that rare breed of person who thinks that the world is full of wonder, light, and people who are ready to love you and open their arms wide with happiness? If you have, then I’m sorry. I feel your pain deeply. Because, as you may have guessed – I am not one of those people.

Once, a long, long, time ago, I told a friend, “The difference between you and me is that I like the general public, and you don’t.” A moment of silence followed and then he replied “You hate the general public!” and suddenly the veil fell from my eyes. I do hate the public. I hate most people in fact. All through my teenage years I wanted people to like me and did everything I could to gain their acceptance. However as I have begun approaching the fine old age of 30 I have started to realise that I don’t give a flying fuck what most people think, do, say, or eat. I just don’t like many people.

As a newly single girl this is proving to be rather problematic. I recently reactivated my OkCupid profile and, it seems, my hatred for almost everything under the sun. Pseuds. People who like Mogwai. MOGWAI. Ugh. Long hair. Earnest people. Buffy superfans. Closet racists. Men who don’t wear good shoes. Cat haters. ‘Nice’ guys (if you think you’re a ‘nice’ guy, you’re not – you’re a twat). I’m enjoying writing this list way too much so I’ll stop, but you get the point – I hate a lot of stuff and it’s the kind of stuff that most people seem to love.

Most people on OkC are looking for someone to sit in a fair trade ecological cafe with on a Sunday so they can read The Guardian together. I can imagine nothing worse. They want to go to gigs where they stand up all the way through and listen to the droning sound of live music. They will probably wear fleeces when they get to 37. They might even like subtitled films. Why do you want to read when you’re watching a film? Get a book! They probably want to be there in the room with me when I give birth to their earnest potato faced child. (Note: I am very much against my future baby Daddy being in the room with me when I give birth, don’t know why, I just am). It’s all too horrible to think about.

Now don’t get me wrong I like a lot of stuff too but it’s stuff that is pretty polarising: 60s fad dances, Russ Meyer films, Kraft Mac & Cheese, Garth Mahrenghi’s Dark Place. Not exactly the kind of stuff that normally engenders a lively and stimulating discussion. In fact most of the time when I attempt to talk to men about the things I’m interested in their faces either glaze over very quickly or they pat me on the head and say “You’re so cute!”. Let’s get one thing straight: DON’T FUCKING PAT ME ON THE HEAD. What is with this? I’m not short, I’m not sweet, and I don’t look like a small animal. Yet almost everyone I fancy tries, at some point, to pat me on the head. I hate it! I’m a twenty-seven year old woman! Is it my penchant for Peter Pan collars?

People who hate people aren’t generally people who end up being in happy relationships. They end up bitter, alone, and writing angry emails from their suburban flat above a hairdressers. And I don’t want that, I don’t. I’ve tried to like the kind of things that nice, normal people like. But I can’t. British Sea Power bring me out in hives. Artisan bread makes my eyes water. Square toed shoes get my gag reflex going. I tried. I really did.

This isn’t to say that I hate other people wanting those things, or that you should all be clammed up inside if someone wants to go to a Stephen Malkmus gig (I’ve been to one – it was… uh… it was ok…) because if those things make you happy then that’s wonderful! It’s not like you’re kicking puppies or taunting old ladies – these things are good, normal, natural things to like. The people who like them are good, normal, wonderful people. But I don’t want that. I want my Richard Burton. I want someone who makes me feel like I’m riding in a fast car shooting guns at mailboxes. For once I want to feel an emotion that makes me so, so, something, I haven’t quite figured out what, but so something that I’ll puke. I want my Tallulah Bankhead. I want it all! I want someone exceptional! Someone who makes me feel like I’m on fire! Someone who wants to set the world alight with me. And I can’t do that while reading the style supplement.

There’s no moral to this blog post: I wish I could tell you all that I believe that there is someone out there who hates everyone else but loves me, but I just don’t know if that’s true. I wish I could tell you that in time I will start liking things that other people like, but I won’t. I just want to know there are more people out there, people who look at everything they’re supposed to want and feel ill, because if there’s someone else out there who feels as cantankerous as I do then I guess I’m not really alone.

Photos from Girl With A One Track Mind’s Flickr and Tavi’s Tumblr.