I spend a great deal of time worrying that everything I'm doing is really weird.
For example, I spent the past hour sitting in a competition swim suit and men's boxer shorts, downloading lesbian folk music at my father's desk in my parents' empty house.
Yeah, I knew it!
I think I'm coming to terms with my immense and embarrassing strangeness, lest displaying my oddities on the internet not count, and guess what? I also interviewed myself in the mirror today. Yeah! Deal with that! I was on Ellen and we're really good imaginary friends. What's up? You got something to say?
That's what I thought.
Anyway, as I sat here in my bathing suit and man underwear and Indigo Girls (and cucumber sandwiches, if you must know), I got an e-mail from some freak who basically pointed out that my being a total freak on the internet made them feel less like the total freak they obviously are.
Awwww. Psycho fan mail. Yay!
So I figure fuck it.
We're all weird.
You do weird shit. I know it. You eat from the garbage can, regretting that half-eaten burrito you should have never thrown away. You pee in the shower and you pick your nose, just to see what's goin' on in there. You talk to yourself, you imagine you're in a movie montage and you plan your best dreams before you go to sleep. You pretend salsa is gazpacho and you make up stories to strangers because you're bored and you'd rather not tell them the truth. You think being homeless might be a really good diet and you enjoy it whenever Color Me Badd comes on the radio. You throw plastic bottles in the regular trash on occasion. You google people you used to know and still don't really care about. You're beyond singing in the shower and dancing in the car.
It's okay! You know what?
It's normal! NORMAL!
At least to me.
Who's a total freak. In which case, shit.