a convo with amanda

Amanda asked me last night, “Are you disgusted with yourself?” 

“Huh?” I said, confused. 

“Aunt Teri said you are disgusted with yourself. She said that she could read it in your eyes.” 

“I’m not disgusted with myself. I don’t know why she thinks that.”

And I’m not disgusted with myself. I am pretty happy with who I am. I’m a good guy. I treat girls right. I don’t take advantage of people. I give people the respect they deserve. I am kind and caring and compassionate. I put other peoples’ happiness before my own, even though it sucks at times. I am a good guy. I really am. I have things I need to work on (who doesn’t?), but in the core of my being, I am a silly boy who wants people to be happy and gets upset when he sees injustice in all its forms. Yes. I’m a good guy. I’ve had people tell me that I’m not. But I think I have a cool personality—quirky, weird, loopy, silly. This is good stuff, eh? And I treat people well. Even if I absolutely loathe someone, I treat them with dignity and respect because they are human beings. So am I disgusted with myself? No, I don’t think so. Sorry if this seems rather egotistical. I just don’t know why someone would presume that I am disgusted with myself. I’m content to be Mr. Anthony Barnhart, and I don’t want to be anyone else—even with all the problems and issues that come along with that name, I wouldn’t trade it in for anything else. God made me who I am, and who am I to question the workings of His hands?