Travesty of the veriest sort

Born with a genius-level IQ, and zero motivation. Perfect test scores across the board, GPA of 2.2. Good genetic stock, terrible personality. Warped, twisted; a parody. Large muscles, hidden by fat. Great sensitivity enclosed in a shell thicker than can be breached. Likable personality, only in small amounts. Rejected, dejected; in pain. A mockery, that each quality is fundamentally flawed or undermined by a fault, generally so unnoticeable as to be untraceable but by a trained eye. Everything at which I try my hand is that at which I succeed, but those great successes are trifling to others. Every day, an errant thought: perchance, someone will look at me and see the anguish; but, alas, my temporary contemporaries are so absorbed in their own petty toilings to concern themselves with another. It’s idiocy, to pray for recognition and also just to be left alone; I want not to be pitied. I desire empathy, and understanding, rather than the shame of someone crying over me, as though a poor, lost puppy, for whom their dry tears may find a path home. It’s for naught, as it is not to be. My pithy witticisms and cryptic remarks no doubt have confused many, but I can’t find in myself the confidence with which to more concisely explain myself, other than to say I want to die.