A huge labyrinth made of penis-shaped hedges? Check. I frequently muse about the things that I’d blow money on if I had an endless supply of it. The prospect of that is bleak, so my borderline pornographic lawn decor will most likely be forever just a fleeting whimsy. I have lots of those-a side effect of both writer’s brain and being an imaginative person stuck in relatively unimaginative circumstances.
Life may try to keep me in my corner, but nothing holds dominion over my mind, which freely meanders through the macabre to the mundane to the child-like fantasy to the downright dirty. I’m all of these things. Most of us probably are. I think that the only thing that probably makes me a little different is that I own all of it.
I forget that I’m weird. I tend to absorb myself in the attentions of other fellow weirdos. I don’t do social functions of the mundane variety, and I tend to avoid the other moms at the baseball field for fear that I’ll yawn in the middle of some tedious anecdote about how exasperating their husband is, or worse, I’ll just get annoyed and suggest they either suck it up or just fucking get divorced already. I have no patience for women who wait on their husbands hand and foot, and then complain when said husband acts like a petulant child. You hung that albatross around your own neck, sister.
Saying shit like that out loud makes me the person to avoid until they need advice on how to turn their situations around. I never stop being amazed that suggestions like, ” tell that dumb motherfucker to make his own sandwiches” are considered incendiary. How are any of us still in that place? If your significant other treats you like an Easy Bake oven with a special pocket pussy attachment, you married the wrong guy. I suggest a do-over. Or not-maybe try living with yourself for a little while.
I forget that I’m weird until I overhear an old acquaintance or relative speaking about me to someone else. ” She rescued a SQUIRREL! ” * Laughs conspiratorially* ” I know!”
Clearly, there’s a lot they don’t know, but I’m not sure how one goes about teaching empathy to an adult. I’m not sure what to make of a human being for whom the very idea of taking care of an injured baby animal is laughable. It’s a sort of passive evil that I frankly find somewhat terrifying.
I think the only thing that makes me different from some of the other weirdos is that there’s no sense of shame attached to the acknowledgement that I’m simply not like the other kids. Unfortunately, the world tries its level best to conform us all to the same standard from birth onward, and as a result, I see a lot of self-loathing in the weirdo community. It’s a lot to fix, and I’m not sure I would begin to know how, but just know, fellow weirdo, that to me, you will always be the most interesting person in the room, and even if we were surrounded by thousands, I would seek you out in your dark corner and gently lead you into the light where you belong.
Unless you’re like a racist or a pervert or something. Then you’re on your own. 😉