Do you think weird people know they’re weird? Is weird relative? And if weird is relative, am I related?
There is a guy I see every day now at work who I think is possibly stalking me...but not in that good way. He’s tall and skinny, he clearly does not own a razor or a comb and as far as I can tell, he owns a grand total of one shirt.
A red, white and blue one. Evidently he’s a patriotic weird guy.
“Hi, Sher,” he says. It freaks me out when he says my name because I can’t figure out how he knows it. It’s not like I wear a name tag that says, “Call me Sher ‘cause that’s my name”.
“Hi, You,” I say. I know his name now too and it’s not You, but I am making a point of not using his name here in case he’s good enough at stalking to have found my website. The idea of him sitting at his computer looking at my picture and touching all my commas makes me shiver…but not in that good way.
I think he’s weird because he never appears to change clothes and because he has that crazy twinkle in his eye like Ted Bundy used to have, Satan rest his soul.
I’m nice to him partially because my job requires it, but mostly because I want him to remember how nice I was when he kidnaps me and throws me in the back of his Gremlin. I figure every time I smile at him I’m stocking up free bathroom passes on our way to the Appalachians.
In addition to his magically knowing my name and always being dressed for an impromptu Flag Day celebration, I think it’s weird that he has a vast and impressive vocabulary. Certainly it’s true that I have always been enamored of men who have a big one (vocabulary, you slut). But with this guy, it’s as though his brain was surgically taken from an incredibly handsome and insanely smart firefighter/male model after a tragic firefighter/male model hair gel incident and placed in some random hobo’s body. It doesn’t fit.
God knows I love smart hobos as much as the next girl, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to cross state lines against my will with one.
So is Captain America really weird or I am weird because I think he’s weird? If I stood him in a room next to a woman with hairy legs, one eyebrow and acid-washed Mom jeans, would she think he was weird or would she fall madly in love with him and happily commence to producing a great number of his hairy legged, highly intelligent offspring?
Maybe this is actually a wonderful learning opportunity for me. He could be the universe presenting a chance for me to grow as a person and to learn to accept people for who they are rather than judge them by some arbitrary and ridiculous standard of what I think weird is. Perhaps he won’t sneak up behind me one early morning while I’m paying too much attention to how big my ear lobes look in the reflection of the doors to my building and tell me if anyone asks, my name is Mavis and I like to skin bears.
If one day I suddenly stop writing and no one knows where I went, please someone come look for me in them there hills. I’ll be the girl in the pretty burlap potato sack beating something red, white and blue on a rock.
But not in that good way.
One of my favorites of all time!
Copyright © 2004-2007, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
Tell me you love me at: HumorWriter@gmail.com
Tell me you hate me at: Yeah. I'm so sure I'm going to make that easy for you.