“Forcefield, forcefield!” My dad likes to mess with me.
I have quirks, so sue me.
I just don’t care for anyone invading my personal space.
When you get tripped and smacked for the Hell of it, you get a little jumpy.
Paranoia isn’t innate or genetically passed down generation from generation,
It’s formulated over an extended period of time. Sorry.
I don’t like buzzing things. It throws my equilibrium off-kilter.
I don’t like his hairy fingers in my face. I love him to death, but I hate hands in my face.
It makes me shift uncomfortably when people hover around me.
Sit down and move around, just don’t move…..around me in the corner of my eyes.
Paranoia isn’t the prettiest of colors.
I think it’s like…a random arrangement of colors that flickers from the next.
But without ever holding a pattern or rhythm.
(Which explains why I hate watching people who can’t dance, dance.)