I don’t think I’m weird.
I used to think I was weird, but that was because people would come up to me and be like,
“Fei, you’re a weird.”
or they’d end their emails with “stay crazy, Fei.”
Or I’d catch up with someone after not talking to them for a long time, and they’d be like
“Remember that time you put your cat on my head and we were strangers?”
“I never did that.”
“Yeah! We were strangers, and then you took your cat and put it on my head.”
“I think you’re thinking of someone else.”
“No. It was you! I was standing by the water-tower. It was spring, 2009. You came out of the darkness with this really long cat and put it on top of me.”
And then it’s just awkward and quiet, and I back away.
I swear I’ve never put a cat on someone’s head that I didn’t know. I mean, I always know both the cat, and the person whose head I put the cat on before I put a cat on it. Like I know both of them. Feline and human.
Oh…I see what people mean when they tell me I’m weird.
I don’t think I’m bad-weird though. Bad-weird is like, pale, sweaty men who hide under stairwells so they can take up-skirt pictures of schoolgirls. Bad-weird is turning your body into a Miley Cyrus tattoo shrine.
I wonder what the world would be like if people just did whatever they really really wanted to do, without worrying about expectations.
I would be outside right now, instead of at work. I have this strange urge to climb the tree outside the window and just pull all its leaves off one by one. Spend two or three days doing just that. I’m sure David would bring me some food, or I could just climb down go to Wendy’s, and climb back up.
It’d be hard to explain though. It sounds like a simple thing to do. Just go outside, climb a tree, and start pulling its leaves off, but I’m sure my co-workers would think it was really weird if I just up and left. Then they’d see me outside clambering up the tree, sitting on a branch and pulling off leaves. But then again, my last day here is in two weeks, so it’s not like getting fired for climbing trees would be so devastating.
I have one picked out too. The big one. So leafy.
I’d have to tell David what I planned on doing over facebook because I don’t have a phone, and I don’t want him to worry. And at first he’d just think it was another one of those things I do to annoy him, like asking him weird questions with no answers such as:
“Um. I have a question.”
“What would you do if I was pigeons?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
“What would you do if thirty became a swordsman?”
“How often does a colony appear on your foot?”
“A colony of what?”
“A colony of pop divas.”
“You never answer my questions.”
“If you asked me questions that were comprehensible by human beings then I would.”
“Never mind. You hate me.”
“I don’t hate you!”
And after a while, he’d try to talk me out of it like:
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay in a tree for three days and nights.”
“Well, it’d get cold?”
“bring me a jacket.”
Also, someone probably owns that tree, and wouldn’t take kindly to my pulling all its leaves off. It’s not that I hate the tree or anything, it’s just that I like doing the same thing over and over again. It’s an aspect of my personality I really have to rein in, because I think it could easily blow up into full on OCD.
When I was a kid, I used to go to the playground near our apartment and just sort sand for three hours every day after school. I’d slide down the metal slide so that it became static-charged. Then I would throw handfuls of sand onto the slide; the finer bits would stick to the slide while the coarser pieces would fall down. I’d gather the fine sand (that’s what I called it “fine sand”. I’ve always had a knack for naming things. For example, my stuffed bear was called “bear bear”, and my blanket I called “blankey”) into a little pile in my hand, and just poke it. Poke it. And poke it.
That was the best part. The poking part. I liked poking it. Poke. Poke.
A couple times I stayed out too late, and my parents got really mad at me. I never told them what I was doing because I was afraid if they found out about the fine sand they would try to sell it because it was so obviously valuable.
Then one day they replaced the metal slide with a plastic one, and it was TOO staticky for sorting sand, because the coarse sand would also stick to the slide.
Dark days. Dark days. That’s when I started injecting the heroin directly into my eyeballs. (j/k….or am I?)
Somewhere along the way, the obsessiveness became more of a humming in the background, and stopped being so overbearing. But once in a while, it pipes up and gives me suggestions like,
“hey, you should depilate your entire body from the neck down.”
“what would David do if you covered his leather jacket with tiny teeth marks?”
“maybe you should call ALL the phone numbers.”
I’m pretty sure everyone has insane thoughts like these on a regular basis, but they just lie about them or avoid talking about them. I’ve had at least three conversations with three separate individuals about how we sometimes have horrible thoughts about sticking things through peoples’ bicycle spokes while they’re riding them or kicking cute innocent things like babies and small animals.
No, the three individuals were not all ME. They were legitimately separate entities from myself.
My conclusion is that moments of insanity are a lot more common and widespread than we like to think. We want to believe everything is ordered and running smoothly, but the world is balanced on the edge of mania, which implies that shit which seems at first random and incredible, like that guy in Canada who ate someone’s face, is actually patterned and all too credible. Just put a person in a room by himself for a couple weeks and make him think he’s unobserved, then you’ll really see what weird is.