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It’s dreadful to be annoying, or to be a fool.

A fool, who is not very astute; a fool, ignorant and very much dull-minded…I could be called a fool when I don’t do well in studies, or when I have a time lag during lectures (usually anything that involves figures). It’s just as terrible to be annoying. And here’s the salt of it: It’s difficult to know if you are.

Being a fool is to be obtuse, and this is evident if people see you’re not very sharp with absorbing information, or relating to it. I have the battered—yet still functioning—gut to admit that when it comes to Algebra, Chemistry, Geometry…or anything math, I do absolutely horrid with it. Also, I am the last to hear of any news, trivial or not. News spread and assumed to have fully circulated in three days won’t often reach me in a week. The answer to the question, “Then, why didn’t you ask?” is that I was never born with that brain compartment programmed to compel me to update on how people make the world revolve. I care more for what would happen if it all stops, but that’s beside the point.

From personal history, everyone I’m told of who were annoying were always backstabbed, to the point that they involved faculty intervention. Being annoying is when people twist the screw on their faces to force a synthetic smile at you as a way of human toleration, then backstab you like the human beings we are. I’m annoying because I talk more than the human interlocution limit, and my digression would maybe make you want to pull out a gun; I’ve been a crude bipolar talking machine since two. And I can prove it to you, too: dad has a video of me talking, and he tells me the camera overheated from the noise. That’s how annoying I can get.

Yes, I’m not very good with numbers. Maybe it’s just practice I lack, maybe not. And there are many other things I’m not very clever at. I get B’s in Science; I flunk Filipino, and don’t get me started on political news. I suppose I am a fool. But sometimes it takes one to know one, eh?

As for being called annoying, I can’t blame those who call me so, and neither should I be blamed for resenting them. I guess knowing that I’m annoying is a sort of gauge that tells me when I need to shut up. But let me add that I talk a lot because I have a lot to say. Usually if the repressed mesh of it rots in the brain, all the stuff fuse into some sort of voices. And I don’t need anymore of them, because I already have six (Hah, there you go. See? Talking nonsense).

To cap it all off, I don’t care if people think I am a fool or annoying—that is, until I find out why they do and who they are. That’s a different story.