That is certainly one way of looking at it, and Ned's consoled himself with a similar thought process before now. Sure, he might have had a miserable and loveless span of teenage years, but if no one enjoyed it, that didn't make him completely different, did it? He finds it interesting that Ginsberg mind works in the same way, follows the same logical route.

"I was abnormal for a lot more than that," Ned mutters, but he doesn't elaborate any further. "I didn't have any friends at school. At least... not really. Not for long." There had been Eugene, for a little while, and he'd clung to even that failed example of friendship as a sign that it was possible, for him, if he was just careful enough. "And I don't think it's only down to niceness, because you keep saying I'm nice but I don't really have any friends now, either."

At this Digby perks up his head, makes a small noise of complaint in his throat. Ned, as if anticipating this, immediately says, "Digby, you don't count. I meant human friends." The dog, appeased in this finer point, lays his head down once more, staring up at them once more with soulful eyes.