Weirdness

That is a particularly brand of people that excells and prides itself on being the weirdest they possibly can be. Why? How? And is it socially acceptable.

I'm weird. I choose to define myself as weird. I dress like a pimp in drag make up for god's sake. I'm morbid. I'm entertained by things that leave people disgruntled. I take my parents' frowning at my appearance as a compliment and I bathe in the stares of passer by. But in all honesty I'm not weird.

Weird simply sounds better than normal. To me at least. And if you're a friend of mine, clearly it sounds better to you too. Because really, in this day and age who wants to be cut from the same cloth as everyone else? I don't. I want to be cut from the clouds on Mount Olympus, with the little pony from Hercules by my side.

For the true "freaks" of this era, it isn't for attention, though we love it. It isn't for fame, or attention, or love, or attention. See where I'm going with this? We stand out, because you put us in category that is seperate from what you know to be normal. That's all. We see someone like us, it's going to be a rocking good time. We see you staring at us with your mouth all agape, we're going to wink and shimmy and be delightful. We see you imitate us because you don't have an inkling of personality to speak of, we're going to stick you in the heart with a sneer and scoff.

So it's not us, that are weird. Oh no no no. Sweetie, that's all you.

Losing it, right?

"You're consistently not good enough. You'd like to change it, and that's cute. That's wonderful, that's probably even flattering, but it's impossible. This is your limit and your limit has been reached. So stick with what you're good at. Watching everyone else have their grand moments, be there to cheer them up when they're down. You're fullfilled your purpose long ago, and any time you spend past when you were supposed to expire is just going to be constant failure."

It's sad. I want to give in to that voice. I want to believe it so bad, because then something would make sense. I could close my eyes and sleep forever. It's not him necessarily. It's knowing he'll be happier, he'll forget me, and that's one less person who wants a memory of me. It's so slittable. It's so fantastic.

I've spent a lifetime perfecting this illusion. But it's an illusion to the wrong people. I can't control that. What am I supposed to focus on? What am I supposed to be? Because nobody seems to want enough me to give me a clue. It was a dream, it was a dream, and nothing more.

If that's the case, then I've decided.