I’m So Special: The Narcissist’s Anthem

I’m so special
I’m so special, so special, so special

This is the addictive chant of a popular dancehall song, which, not surprisingly, is titled “I’m So Special.” The artist’s name is Movado, in case you want to hear it for yourself.

While many people aren’t as bold to make such a proclamation, the evidence of a majority of the population’s sense of “specialness” can be found on blogs, social networking profiles, and just about any other medium accessed by other humans.

Look how special I am everyone, they flaunt.
Read my opinion of politics, the deterioration of the family structure, rude people, interracial relationships, sex, they beg.
Look at how adventurous I am, I’m in a raft; I’m climbing a mountain, look at me, they show off.
Listen to my cover of this Otis Redding song, don’t I sound just like him? Give me a record deal, they bay.

I’m so special, they appeal to the masses.

And yes readers, so am I. My confession for today is that the older I get, the more fascinated with myself I become. I enjoy the way I talk and laugh, the way I think, my bizarre and dark sense of humor, my personality, how quickly my nails grow, how goofy I dance, just about everything about me is special.

I’ve often wished that I could clone myself so that I could hang out with someone just like me. I’ve also wished I could have neighbors just like me (to ensure decency), coworkers as considerate as me, customer service people who were as professional and kind as me. I’ve even expressed to my mother what a wonderful child I was, and that I would consider myself extremely lucky to be blessed with children who behave in the same manner.

So, much like those people, I regularly venture online to tell the world how I’m feeling, what I want out of life, what I think about life, what I’ve analyzed about my behavior. Perhaps I’m under the delusion that the world cares. Or perhaps I’m sitting here giggling in delight at the cleverness of my own thoughts and how happy I am to write all of this just for me.

Whatever it is, I’m here to report that it has spread to my offline life. I’ve started a “Facebook” page at the entrance of my cubicle, to notify coworkers of my daily thoughts. I call it Penny For My Thoughts. It’s a sheet of paper with a real penny taped on it and filled with my “postings.” I don’t get much foot traffic, so I doubt more than two people even realize what’s written on those papers stuck to the outside of Jennifer’s cube. But it’s there, folks. From my dreams of homeownership, to how I can be found at home on Friday nights while other D.C. singles are out on dates.

What would possess me to do such a thing? I’m so special. I’m so special, so special, so special.