In high school I shared a locker with two other girls, best friends at the time. One was prissy. When we would share a cup to put our tooth brushes in, she would make sure to have her brush not touch either of ours. I didn't really mind. Everyone has different needs.

One day, she came up to me and asked why I never cleaned the cup. I didn't even know the cup needed cleaning. In fact, she ventured out far enough to ask me why I didn't clean my toothbrush very well. That was my first my real encounter with the concept of "manners." It wasn't nice. I didn't understand why it needed mentioning. I didn't understand why she thought it was okay to try and implement her way of doing things to me. To me, that wasn't good manners. To me, that was humiliating. I no longer wanted to look at that cup. I cleaned my toothbrush, thinking, I didn't need to experience that. She didn't need to happen in my life.

Manners didn't leave a good first impression. And vice versa, I'm sure. Irony?

I had hoped that its first impression would be the last. Like most things I don't deem important. I thought it would evaporate. But it stayed rather incessantly. It remained, remains, to jab me in the knee whenever I seem to feel comfortable. Manners are about small sacrifices, said Emerson, or someone like that, I honestly couldn't give a fuck at this point--but shouldn't our differences allow us to levy different decisions on those precise sacrifices. What if, to me, being told what to do is the biggest foul of all. Do I get a say? Do I get to say, I wasn't raised that way. I guess we were raised differently. Well, yeah. Kudos to you, for stating the obvious.

Acceptance would be nice, I said. And meant, with all my heart.

Guichanaso.