A friend of mine told me that I am a recluse.

Actually, her exact words involved a slang term I'm unfamiliar with, and Urban Dictionary informed me that means I'm a recluse.

Those words scarred me, a heavily sharpened dagger straight to the tattered remains of my heart. Anguish spurted from that new wound, anguish and rage, and so I decided I would prove her wrong.

I decided I would try out this, this social interaction thing the world's got going here. I would try to talk to people, to converse. It sounded awfully difficult, even at the moment of conception.

But I would do it anyway. I, Izzy, was the most determined thirteen-year-old recluse this world has ever seen.

I mean, non-recluse.

Gathering strength from this determination of mine, I purposefully marched over to the nearest mall. Extremely unfamiliar territory for me. As soon as I arrived, I cleared my throat and requested a map. I received one.

Perhaps, I thought, this social interaction thing is not so difficult at all. I made my first statement. I smiled weakly. I got a free map that I can later claim Obama touched and sell on eBay for $50,000. I thanked someone.

Oh, yeah. Lookin' good.

Encouraged by this amazing success, I figured I could take it even further. I could try...conversation! Yeah. Conversation.

I strode into a store and marched up to the cashier and attempted this conversation business. I'm not very used to doing things like that. You know, talking and the like. But as I am not a recluse (of course not!), I did it. Perhaps, just perhaps, I was just a wee bit too forceful. Just a wee bit. Or at least, that's what I was explaining as the security hauled me away.