Disclaimer: Roses are red. Violets are dull. G Wing isn't mine. My profits are null.
Once the war began, I quickly realized that I was different from the rest of the world. I thought differently, reacted differently, and was socially incompatible with other people my age. Although I hadn't truly expected otherwise, it still came as a bit of a shock.
"Why does everyone make fun of my sneakers?" I once asked Dr. J. "They're just shoes. Who cares what they look like?"
He cackled, responding "Because that's all they can make fun of, boy. That's the only thing about you that's not above reproach. You're so perfect, they're reduced to nitpicking when they wish to criticize."
"I'm not perfect," I denied, flustered, feeling aghast at the very idea. "I'm no more perfect than the next person."
Then he positively grinned and shook his head in amusement. "And modest to boot. Boy, you're so perfect it's frightening."
"But I don't feel perfect," I admitted quietly. "I feel disorganized."
He laughed. "Then maybe you should get a new pair of shoes."
And that's the way it would be. Things would go full circle, with me looking for rationale, but finding only more questions, more rebuffs. It seemed there simply weren't any reasons for my being different.