Joining the world of missing persons

I am much too good at being alone. I can go for days and days without feeling any great urge for human contact. On a real streak I can go for approximately 3 days without speaking to anyone-save possibly a halting and brief conversation with my mum or da just to prove to them that I am alright and to myself that I still have to carry on conversation. Meaningful conversation doesn't appeal to me, neither, in fact does casual conversation. At times I find myself marvelling at the fact that many people thrive on interaction-call people just to chat or strike up conversation without feeling a choking sensation as if the very act of speech is painful and I understand some people even spend days and nights with a person or people thus necessitating communication on some level.
Course, it should be noted that my job requires me to speak, be social and friendly with dozens, possibly even hundreds of people on any given day. I do not count this. It's automatic-for the people. That being the case it is obviously necessary that I speak and carry on conversation with these people. As failing to do so would most likely result in the loss of my job. While I am no great fan of my job I am fond of food and shelter so I do what I must. And it's much better now, what with working downtown. In the course of an 8 hour day I can easily carry on 25 conversations about the weather, 15 conversations about the road construction, 30 conversations about what ways were spent passing the time the previous night or weekend. Not to mention the rare and strange conversation that borders on having something vaguely resembling substance-I should say I'm lucky enough to have maybe 1 of these a week--and that the substance is usually no more substantial than a comment relating to a recent horrifying world event. Most of my time is spent throwing out random Napoleon Dynamite quotes and cleaning splashes of milk off my glasses. It is not an environment that really inspires closeness. It is in fact an environment that causes me to shut down and lose the power of speech within 5 minutes of locking the door. Nothing causes temporary muteness quite as much as forced inter-action.
I can spend days and days alone and I in no way feel lost or sad. Being alone inside my thoughts is the safest place for me. No one disagrees, no one will yell at me if I eat too much or spend an entire day laying on the couch watching soaps and no one asks me if I had a good weekend. I had a weekend. It was neither good nor bad. It simply was. I watched some movies. I watched some crime shows. I went to a couple of clubs. Is there a reason why these things need to be group activities?
The sister has on occassion said to me that doing things alone is "sad." And she doesn't like to do things alone because she doesn't want to project that level of sadness. Oddly enough I do not feel "sad" which I assume she uses to mean pitiful. I don't feel sad when I am alone. I feel sadder when I am with people whose company I in no way crave or enjoy. (Mind you, there are people who I enjoy being around, people who are intelligent, wild, or funny that I am always pleased to see, if not hang around with_I am not talking about these people. These people know who they are) It makes me sad that there are people who believe our interactions are in some way important or vital. It strikes me as very strange that people think I will want to see them after I sober up and in the light of day. I am only attractive on a barstool in the neon light. And then I am only attractive as the night wears on. The men that are attracted to me are not ever attractive to me on any level other than providing me with a little bit of entertainment before I slink off alone and spend the latter part of the evening reading. It should be mutual. I really must think that it's mutual or else I am truly a very lousy person.
It is distinctly possible that I am a very lousy person. In fact it's more than likely. Which might be why I spend so much time alone-because the other option is facing that I am bad to people. People who probably do not deserve to be treated rotten. That's how I treat them. I let them buy me drinks or food or provide a conversational source for a few hours and then if they ask for a number sometimes I give my real digits and sometimes I don't but I never answer. Because the time is over. Maybe we watch the Sox game on TV or we pretend to be interested in the band playing for tips but after that 2 or so hours is over so too is my interest and I move on and go home. Trying to rekindle that interest is a waste of time. Unless the other person has a time machine there is no way I'll be intrigued enough to spend more than maybe another few minutes with whatever momentary fascination I might've had.
Sometimes it seems the only answer is that I am bad. Then again, if I were truly bad maybe I would drag the suffering out for long periods of time. Weeks, months, years until the realization that I am upleasant comes as a striking blow and there is much gnashing of teeth and wringing of hands. I'm protecting myself. I've been burned and it still is a righteously unpleasant sensation. Some people can be hurt and move on in less time than it takes me to decide where I think I should put my couch. These people astound me and I am being genuine when I say that I do not know how to wrap my mind around having this ability. I think I wish I had it. Sort of going all Jim Carrey in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-alternately wiping out memories whilst being completely controlled by the distant knowledge that something is not quite right about what's going on. I can't move on because I can't remember what's holding me back.
So I spend my days off not being. Acting like a non-entity. Silent, in my mind, vacant and watching hours of television or random websites.
There's absolutely nothing normal about me. I do believe I'm a bit fucked up, you know?