Sunday, March 8, 2015

Bless The Tribe Of The Weirdos

I have been called a weirdo a time or two. At first, it seems people were trying to shame me, but as I grew older and wiser...I embraced the label. I like being me. I like being weird. If weird is taking risks, exploring options, goal setting, using failures as lessons, and inhaling life by the seat of your pants...well...that's me.

Weirdos seem to glob onto me and no matter where I go...it's like magnetic attraction. Another thing: Normal people worry the hell out of me. 
Aw..me posing as a Normal.



Their ass is wound so tight you couldn't get a needle up that thing. And who wants that? I bet they poop needle strands or if they are constipated it would be BB size.

When I was a cop...I could communicate with the best weirdos and accept people's differences as a unique part of their character. Being called weird is like being called a limited edition. It's better than unique which when mentioned makes people cock their head sideways and say, "hmmm." So weirdos don't like to be called unique.

There is also a "Dance of The Weirdos." If you know it, then get up and do it. If you don't, I don't know what to tell you, except maybe you aren't a weirdo.Actually (which is a word usually signifying a lie is about to follow), the Dance of the Weirdos hits people at odd times and might spark a jig of celebration during inopportune moments. You have to be in the "club" to know about it.  

Ouch. That was a little far up in there.

I have weird friends. We have met under strange circumstances. For instance, one of my favorite pairs of Bohemian weirdo friends are hippy, dippy, trippy. They found me in the newspaper. It's not like I advertised. There I was. It was front page news when I opened my shop in Mayberry. They came because when they read the article, they said to each other and later shared with me, "We just have to meet her. I know we are going to be friends and there is a connection. She has a good aura." It was true. We've been wonderful friends ever since.

 


In fact, yesterday our conversation was a little off the beaten path. I was sharing my strange sleep patterns that my Fitbit is tracking. For the first two weeks, I was apparently getting woken up around 3 am (the witching hour) but I didn't remember it.

"Oh. Wow. That's when you are getting visitors."

*blink*blink*

"Yeah, do you remember who you were thinking about or dreaming about? Because that is more than likely who is visiting you."

"That's a little creepy, Ro. I have no idea. I don't remember a thing. I don't even remember being awake."

"I've had someone sit on the end of my bed before and it scared the fuck out of me. You need to sage your house."

"Does cooking with it count?"



Yeah. Those are the conversations. I love them and I love my friends. However, I haven't slept well since Saturday because I am freaking out about the "visitors." It sounds like an alien movie. Those things would scare me worse than a fucking ghost. Maybe.

And, no, cooking with sage doesn't count just like cooking with garlic doesn't keep the vampires away. You have to wear that shit around your neck. So...one of these days I have to find a head shop and buy a stick of sage.

It stinks like ass. I know because I had a college roommate who did that in our apartment. "Cleansing" she would say, but the rest of us thought she was burning marijuana and we didn't know how to approach her. When she showed us the stick of sage, we still thought she was doing pot. It's because we were country kids and didn't know any better. Looking back and relying on my years of experience..AS A COP (sheesh-don't get any ideas...it came from viewing evidence, doing drug busts)...I can laugh about it. Obviously, she wasn't a pothead. She is a great teacher in Wyoming and did great things with her life. She is double great. Not that it matters, but if you knew our college backstory, you would shit.

One time she came out naked while the rest of us were watching movies with our boyfriends in the living room. She had shaved her bush in the shape of a heart and asked for feedback. Needless to say, our boyfriends thought she was pretty cool. That was just the way she was...a free spirit.

Edgar Allan Poe said, "There is no beauty without some strangeness." So how much is "some"? I would like to ask Edgar (yes, we are on a first name basis-perhaps he has visited me at 3 am) that question. I'm just curious because, dude, I have a lot, so I must be fucking gorgeous.

 

 


2 comments:

  1. I welcome some of the friends I dream about. I miss them, too. Or I am still looking for them in my life. What ever, I think they are harmless and nothing for you to lose sleep over.

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  2. Momma Fargo:
    Hey, we have some sage growing in the garden every year...you're welcome to a handful or two...and a free cup of coffee.

    As to WHAT constitutes "weird" to me is done by studying the "content of one's character" as MLK one said.
    Still, some people are OUTRIGHT CHARACTERS, so that's a wash...lol.

    I focus on the "presentation" first off.
    Start at the shoes and work your way up.
    As a LEO, you know a LOT of the signals that help you "define" others.

    What we consider "normal" these days seems just as hard to pin down...again, all depends on how we define someone nased on how they present themselves to us.

    I think I'm flexible...malleable...like a willow in the wind.
    I can be normal when needed and weird when it's absolutely necessary, but I won't mix the two (hurts like hell).
    But at least I've got a GOOD weird going on with my "mojo"...heh.
    And my normal is anytime I'm not weird...so there, sue me.
    :)

    Very good post, dear.

    Roll safe down there.

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