Stepping on a Carpet with Muddy Boots

Life used to be quite easy, in terms of likes and dislikes. I used to read whatever came into my hands, following nothing but my heart when I was to choose my next reading companion. I never took heed of big names in order to fall in love with their works, except for Homer. And I couldn't care less if I simply didn't like that which I should have adored. Maybe I was too young, maybe I wasn't made for the big leagues, who knows. Reading, as well as writing and listening to music, was simply a passion — not a golden badge to wear and show off in front of your friends.

Suddenly, the truth was revealed to me: "these are the writers you must read," "these are the songs you must hum," "these are the poems you must recite," "these are the movies you must watch." Confessing an ignorance became something like stepping on somebody's brand new carpet with muddy boots. Confessing a dislike made the mudstain permanent.

Where was I when the Basic Knowledge chip was implanted on everybody's brains?

Am I from another planet, do I speak another language? for those names mean nothing to me, no matter how hard I try to figure them out. No, nothing...

But you know what, people? The more you point at the stains I leave, the harder I will step on that carpet you all dance on with your shiny ballet shoes.

And yes it hurts that I've got one less thing in common with you, but that's how I was engineered. And I can't help it at all.