The curse of RBF

There’s no such thing as being born with resting bitch face. Who ever saw a ‘bitchy’ baby? Sure, there are grumpy babies, and babies that give mad side eye (trust me, I’ve seen it), but you can’t call a baby a bitch. RBF is something you must grow into. And who can say at what age I grew into mine? All I know is that throughout high school, and ever since then, I have been afflicted with the ‘curse of RBF’. 

On numerous occiasions, close friends have revealed that “omg I thought you were such a bitch at first, but you are actually sooo nice” (I’m paraphrasing here but you get the idea). Usually I embrace the bitch face. It’s just another quality on the long list of traits that make up my identity as a unique, tenacious, fiercely indepentant young woman (read: bitch). It helps to guard me against unwanted attentions or conversation. It keeps away the people who haven’t broken through my nutty outer shell to the delicious marshmallow within (is anyone else hungry?).

One thing I HATE, however, is when people I’m partying with, or working with, or just hanging out with, ask me ‘what’s wrong?’ or ‘are you okay?’ when nine times out of ten, there was nothing wrong! I was just being quiet, or thoughtful, or calm. Of course, following the question, there now  WAS something wrong- I’d be angry. For some reason, it flips my cranky switch, and I can’t really explain why. 

The majority of the time this happens, I am absolutely fine; happy even; and maybe the reason the question grinds my gears is because I then feel like a robot- too apparently inhuman for others to read correctly. Of course, I KNOW the question is generally coming from a good place, a place of friendly concern. The thing is, if there WAS something wrong, I’m the sort of person who wouldn’t want to discuss it then and there. I like to process my thoughts and emotions privately, and then if needed, evaluate them with whoever at a later time. You, drawing attention to the fact that I apparently can’t hide my feelings, are making a bad situation worse. 

The fact that it bothers me so much is very confusing, and I suppose it speaks volumes as to what type of person I am. But does it speak of complexity or immaturity? Of my being private or prone to mood swings? Hmmm…


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