Category: Words

800 words about being a weirdo

Dilemma: I don’t want to be like everyone else, but I don’t want people to think I am weird in a bad way. I still want them to like me. Except for the people who I think suck. Them, I don’t care about.

Is it weird to write a list of all the reasons why I am weird? It is, isn’t it?

Well, I can’t think of anything to write about so it’s time for a list.
Why am I weird?

1. I don’t brush my hair. Not even when I wash it. Exceptions? Sure, for some special occasions like weddings I do brush my hair or on the rare occasions I need to look normal. If I ever had a job interview, I might. I aspire to hair that is as messy as Helena Bonham Carter’s or Neil Gaiman’s. I can only dream.

2. I like ramen noodles for breakfast. Or any noodles, really.

3. I am writing a list of reasons I am weird.

4. I am writing a list of reasons I am weird and can’t think of any.

5. Although I will not wear shoes that hurt my feet, I love high heels.

6. I own several black fedoras.

7. On most days, when I get dressed for work, there is at least one inappropriate element which prevents me from looking like a sane person. Often, my shoes.

8. I have a penchant for cleavage exposure. The men are all saying “that’s not weird at all,” aren’t they?

9. In addition to the cleavage, I have a tattooed chest. In spite of the tattoos, if someone asks me where I got my work done, I assume they are implying that I have had breast surgery when they are clearly talking about my ink.

10. I have a penchant for using words like penchant.

11. I have a penchant for references that only make sense to one other person on the planet. If that. It makes Dennis Miller look like he coddles the weak.

12. I read children’s books. To myself. Over and over. Ask me about the Oz books. Anything. I dare you. Although I sort of skipped over the little kid books and went straight to teenage books and then adult books. I learned to read freakishly early.

13. My tattoos? Poppies. Battlefields, memory, sleep, Oz. Why is that weird? They take up a lot of body space. And then there’s the duck. A duck? Yes. A pre-Columbian duck. He’s in black and white. The poppies are all red. Why a duck? Why not?

14. I used to have almost all of my body parts commonly covered with clothes pieced, except my navel. Yes, that probably means what you think it does. No, not anymore. I got bored.

15. I was at a party the first time I saw Cindy Lauper on television, and everyone at the party stopped dancing and said “Look, Michelle–she dresses like you!” Hey, at least I didn’t wear my underwear on the outside like Madonna. And no, I don’t have any pictures. If anyone does, please post them! I would particularly love a picture of the gold lace dress…

16. I take pictures of the sky almost every day. Often from the same spot.

17. When I was 15 or 16, I got fired from my 2nd job, and someone told me I was fat, lazy, stupid and would never amount to anything or be able to keep a job. I’ve worked at the same company since 1990 because I enjoy proving people wrong. Excessively. My reactions to things might be..a little bit…extreme. No, I haven’t had the same job the whole time. I’d go nuts. Yes, I agree that I should get over what he said at this point.

18. When I am in the car, shower, or just home alone, I sing. If I don’t sing, I hum. If I am out walking, sometimes I sing accidentally. I make up songs and sing them to the cat.

19. I play Words With Friends…with strangers.

20. People should be able to do whatever they want to do sexually, with however many people they want to do it with, as long as it is truly consensual. Yes, I mean whatever. No, I don’t mean they should be able to marry their dog. Do I need to define “consensual” for you?

21. I have bathed in public on multiple occasions.

22. Maybe I’m not as weird as I think I am. This is a short list.

23. I thought of another really good thing just now while I was in the shower, but by the time I finished my shower, dried off and got to a writing device I had forgotten what it was. That’s not the weird part. The weird part is that I am telling people about it.

24. Between the age of 18 and maybe 35, I didn’t date any Americans. Not by any sort of particular choice. They didn’t ask. I didn’t notice. I was busy with everyone else.

25. I absolutely love to quibble with inspirational quotes on Twitter. Sometimes on Twitter. Sometimes to myself. Sometimes here.

26. Even though I am 50, I still believe that the monsters can’t get me if I have a sheet over me. Preferably covering my neck. If I get too hot, I can uncover my feet.







The secret to happiness or indifference and why writers are screwed

The secret to happiness is letting everything be what it is instead of what you think it should be and accepting it.
–Every Fucking Guru

People who write are doomed to be unhappy because they think too much
–the Daily Beast

The happiness gurus say the secret to happiness is just accepting what is.

I have a problem with that. Or rather an argument. Why yes, that is surprising. I am so seldom argumentative in general.

My quibble is that letting everything be what it is and just accepting it is exactly the same thing I do when I am drifting through life aimlessly and not giving a shit about anything or anyone. It’s the same thing I do when I am hurting. It’s drifting. It’s aimless. It’s not being happy. It is just being. It is just letting shit happen. It is not trying to be better.

It is all in the interpretation of “accepting,” I suppose, but don’t think I haven’t noticed that the key to happiness and indifference is the same.

It’s all in the way you live it, of course, but stop making it sound easy. It may be simple but it sure isn’t easy. Much like not eating too much.

It doesn’t matter. I think too much for either of the two extremes anyway. I think too much for just letting it be, and not enough to be a really excellent tortured soul.

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Know what? I am going to play hookey tonight. Maybe it’s too late to call it playing hookey. I am going to just up and quit in the middle because…I am just done. Tired. Done. Empty brained.

It isn’t a total loss. I got to have a glass of wine with my lovely friend. That’s better than blogging any time.

Communication

I can probably out right to you and keep out communicate you to the point where it will drive you Maddingly insane
–Anon.

You start a conversation, you can’t even finish it.
You’re talking a lot, but you’re not saying anything.
–Talking Heads/Psycho Killer

Right, but what if I am Maddingly insane already? It’s not like I need to be helped down that path. Because talking is hard.

Because of technical issues, because of time, because someone is reticent or completely silent, because I have assumed that someone’s intentions were bad, because I don’t want to say something that might hurt someone’s feelings, because someone doesn’t want to hurt mine, because I assume that people aren’t particularly interested in hearing from me…because…because…because…

The reasons are limitless, really.

Sort of like the stupidity of assuming anything about anything.

Actually, I was wrong. Talking is easy. Communicating successfully? Is anyone actually good at it? I mean, I can’t even do the talking part unless I have a notepad. Oh, I’m brave in writing. I have all the time in the world. I can throw the words out there and never know if anyone even reads them.

Oh, right. That’s a monologue. Not communicating at all. Talking to myself, it seems, is what I am best at.

And abusing the rules of grammar.

In fat camp, they claim that most people have functional coping and communication skills. I…reserve judgement. I know that anecdote does not equal data, but in my experience people have trouble communicating.

Also? I was wrong about being wrong about talking not being easy. For some of us, a lot of us, talking is hard. Just saying words out loud. Hard.

Talking? Verbally? I can feel words building up, and they stay there. I could choke on them if they were real. I feel like my eyes get bigger and sadder and then I say something awkward and awful and cry. And not even something awkward and awful meant what I wanted to say in the first place. I would probably be more emotionally successful if I pretended to be mute. I could just hold up my iPad with all the right words on it when I felt a need to be understood.

Of course, saying something is one thing and being understood something else entirely. Even in writing.

If talking is hard, making yourself understood is even harder.

I would define myself as introverted, but not repressed. As long as I have a pencil. I wonder if this is a common thing? It could be common among people who write. Artists, maybe. Singer-songwriters.

Without a pencil? You should give me the fucking pencil back. I’ll break your fucking arm.

Other people? They can talk. Make people laugh. But they won’t say what is in their heart for fear of…whatever it is we are all afraid of. Masters of misdirection. Extroverts on the outside, and repressed on the inside. They get a little bit of a release, I suppose, from talking…but if everything is a joke? What happens with the serious, the sad? Don’t they want to just say what they feel sometimes instead of deflecting everyone with something funny? Or do they feel totally fine just the way they are?

It’s a bit alien to me.

What do people do who are both introverted and emotionally repressed? They must explode. Actually, I know they do. I have been that way when I don’t have an outlet for it. It just all stays in there until something gives.

Something always gives.

Unless you are one of the 3 people on Earth who is both reasonably extroverted and not repressed. Congratulations. No, I’m not talking about the people who are extroverted and completely unfiltered. Although I love you. You never have to wonder what you are thinking, and it is a joy. Unless we have a secret.

We all have something flawed about us, I suppose.

In writing, I try not to censure myself most of the time. I don’t say anything awful about other people. Only about myself. I can take it. Oh and yes: censure can mean both “editing what I say” and “saying critical things” so fuck this whole paragraph.

I try not to talk directly about other people. If I talk about other people, it’s either to say something nice about them, or to talk in general terms about people who I might have had relationships with in the past. I might write things they might find uncomfortable, if they saw it. Most people I write about would never see it. The ones who do probably already know what I think before I write it. At least I think they do. I try not to write what would hurt someone else while telling my own truth. A balancing act.

You’ve heard I’m bad at balance. More than once.

Maybe I’ll name names someday. That could be fun.

***True confession:
In case you can’t tell, I wrote part of this (it’s safe to assume it wasn’t any of the good parts) while watching back to back episodes of Game of Thrones. Prince Oberyn was a bit of a distraction. Sorry–this might be lacking in such important elements as critical thinking, consistent style, proper grammar and anything resembling editing.