Page 3 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

Sociopathy.

Antisocial Personality Disorder.

Behaviors: antisocial (check), deceitful (check), hostile (check), irresponsible (okay, check), manipulative (I suppose, though I’m not as good at it as I’d like to be), aggressive (yeah).

The thing that most people don’t know about sociopaths is that we do actually get lonely. At least this one does. It’s hard to explain. I don’t like people—I don’t know how to be interested in them the way everyone else seems to be. But god, I wish they’d like me. Not much luck in that aspect though.

But England will be different. It’s the whole reason I chose to do my master’s here instead of California. California is basically the worst place in the world for antisocials. It’s too loud, too sunny, too fucking friendly. Everyone gets revved up on kale smoothies and cocaine so I can’t even get a tub of hummus without the Trader Joe’s checkout lady grinning at me and calling me honey and asking me how I’m doing and what are my plans for the weekend? Californians just can’t help themselves. If I stayed there any longer I was bound to kill someone.

Just kidding. Sort of.

So I researched the world’s rudest, unfriendliest places. Top two are apparently Russia and France, which I dismissed because I don’t speak French or Russian. And then there it was. Number 3: United Kingdom. What do I know about England?

Surly people (Yay, means I should fit in perfectly. Maybe they won’t notice that I’m a sociopath?)

Gloomy weather (If even the English find me too surly for them, I could blame it on the weather!)

Terrible food (... or I could blame it on the food.)

Brilliant writers

The last bit has been the deal clincher for me. I’ve always wanted to write for a living. When I was little and magazines were still a thing, I’d daydreamed about writing for them. It seemed very glamorous at the time. I’d pictured myself in New York City, a place teeming with people just as vicious and cruel and empty as myself. Not a single person is allowed to be bubbly in New York City; I was sure of it. I’d wear sky-high heels and lipstick the color of a gaping wound and stride around with a cigarette hanging from my lips, getting paid to talk to people, manipulate them into giving up information, and then write down my observations in the most wickedly delicious way.

But then the Internet swallowed up the magazine industry whole and I just couldn’t bring myself to write for online news sites. All those bright colors and dementedly cheerful headlines:

TEN LOL-WORTHY PUPPIES!

SEVEN SMOOTHIES WORTH BUYING A BLENDER FOR!

FIVE WAYS TO TELL WHETHER YOU’RE A SOCIOPATH!

To be fair, I actually found the last one useful.

The thought of my impossible New York dream rankles me, even now, so many years after its death. I give myself a littleshake. Whatever, forget New York. I’m in England, for god’s sake. I locate the bus headed to Oxford and pay the driver.

“Which stop?” he says.

“Um.” It takes a moment to recall the name that had been included in the welcome e-mail. “Glow-chester?”

“Nope, sorry, don’t know that.”

I frown at him and peer at the sign above the bus, which clearly says “OXFORD.” “This is going to Oxford, right?”

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