Sponge for knowledge of all things weird

Post Title: TMI = Trading Masturbatorial Inquiries

Post Date: December 18, 2012

I am a pretty open book. I’m spread-eagle when I write, because secretly I want people to know all my weird inklings. I write about a lot of superfluous mumbo-jumbo. It’s liberating, putting yourself out there and risking embarrassment. We only live so long and we all have a voice. I wish more people opened up, because I love taking a stroll down everyone’s crazy block. Sometimes we need to creep into some red-light district avenue of life, peering off peripherally at the scandalous silhouettes sticking their tongues out between their fingers.

It’s a rush being open to new experiences, good or bad. A cosmic bond — Taoist, Christian, atheist — an allegory of experiences is what I envision. I have been writing in my journals since Hooked on Phonics brain-washed my little feeble brain. I envisioned myself as a gentile Anne Frank. I’m not kidding. My first journal, the heading reads, “I hope to be like Anne Frank, and have people read of my ordeals.” Admittedly, I had a flair for drama, so these conceived ordeals are pretty exaggerated.

My biggest ordeal was wearing an overall-style dress, bending over in the cafeteria, and having everyone gawk at my Hanes Not-Her-Way wedgie. I don’t think my journals will be in the human archives, and my life was nothing close to escaping the Nazi regime. I was just a pro at embarrassing myself. I was like a drunken sailor walking down the hallway; I must’ve eaten shit on a daily basis. My equilibrium is pretty shitty, and I trip and fall a lot. This was the determining factor in my 86ing skirts in middle school. I don’t know how many people saw my ass, but that is the cross I must bare….

I have been laughed at a lot in my early years, so I wear humiliation like a Girl Scout badge. It’s a part of life — get over it! I don’t padlock my journals. They are a free-for-all for future historians. I know I will be in the annals of time as a freak, and that is all peachy keen with me. 

There’s no such thing as NORMAL. We all pretend to be normal, but pretending to be something we are not is a recipe for self-doubt and feels pretty shitty at the end of the day. For me, it’s easier to judge “normal” people than Freak-formers. More than meets the eye ! I spent a lot of years holding in my inner freak. When JTT was a prepubescent sex-god (that’s wrong), I was drooling over the bulge-tastic David Bowie from Labyrinth. When girls were collecting Barbies, I was obsessed with Trolls. I wasn’t even allowed to own a Barbie because I was known for tearing their heads off and poking my eyes with their dagger-like hands. Plus, there were the incessant questions I asked my debutante Grandma. “Why don’t they have a bagina or a noodle?”

I can also remember going to see The Lion King in theaters and yelling at the screen, “Where’s their penises?!” I was in time-out, I think, for all of 1994. I was just curious! I wanted to know! I really didn’t plan out the outcomes; I was all action and no theory. 

I was a sponge for knowledge of all things weird. I wasn’t interested in anything practical. That’s probably why I’m inept at all things logical. Whenever I play Trivial Pursuit, I win all the pink pie pieces. I rock at Rock ’n’ Roll Jeopardy. I probably could tell you every crazy, non-useful fact you could imagine. Like, why cats show their butts to humans. [Ed. note: it’s a form of greeting that indicates trust.]

Mind-blowing! Look out, Alex Trebek! I don’t mind being a loser as long as I’m free and no maniac villagers decide to come drag me out of my room, clad in my man-shirt and lady boxers, and burn me at the stake. If someone reads this and has a “me-too” reaction, then that makes all the difference. Freak nation unite!