The introvert’s life is secretive, like a cat that spends most of the day hiding in a cardboard box. You vacillate between a need to connect deeply and being repelled by people, like someone allergic to oxygen who must still breathe.
Acquaintances may describe you as “a good listener,” “the thinking type,” or “maybe someone who had their tongue cut out.” They wait in anticipation for the day you will speak, hoping that, like a homeless person on acid, you will say something that gives life meaning.
It will be something ambiguous like, “The secret is believing in the infinite nature of time,” “The essence of Eggo is humanity’s raison d’être,” or “Fuck this shit.” If you come up with something really good, you may not ever have to speak again, your place marked in history like Buddha or Vanilla Ice.
The most telling quality of introverts is their quiet nature when placed in unfamiliar settings, like a mouse dropped in a lake who can only think about not dying. Introverts will open their mouths only when the consequences are catastrophic, like that time you refused to call the electrician. So what? There was some minor sparking. Whatever. You didn’t like those fish anyways… or the living room furniture… or your house. Basically, still a win.
Introverts crave deep, meaningful interactions. This means that when someone asks who your friends are, you list a bunch of dead authors who also spent their free time alone in their room. There they wrote impenetrable poetry and lengthy monologues about grass. Having spent a lot of time staring at grass, you understand completely.
An introvert will hear the word “teamwork” and start weeping uncontrollably. Teamwork is why it’s so easy to coordinate a car insurance settlement. Teamwork is why everyone loves meetings. Teamwork is why Congress is like a bunch of pilots fighting for control of a plane about to crash into North Korea.