*Wearing my cool new tweed trilby* Some people are addicted to heroin, some to Pinterest, but I’m addicted to buying strange hats and then never wearing them because they don’t match my clothes. Some people go as a promiscuous rabbit for Halloween, some go as a ninja, but I go as Karl Marx. Some people like action films where shit explodes and everything takes on a strange phallic quality *cough cough* Michael Bay *cough*, some people like gushy sentimental films starring Sandra Bullock and that British guy whose name escape me (Grant Hugman?), but I like stuffy period dramas where you don’t think there’s going to be anything good but then Colin Firth starts cussing out Geoffrey Rush or all of a sudden you see Juliette Binoche’s left breast.
…Do you see the pattern here? I have a peculiar predisposition towards the peculiar. I mean, it’s like if I try to be normal this happens. Like the proverbial cheese of destiny, I stand alone.
And the worst part is, I don’t why I’m so weird because most everyone else I know in comparison is normal so I can’t even observe them in order to indirectly gain insight into the way my brain works. I’m going to make up some theories: 1) Maybe I wasn’t dropped on my head enough as a baby, and so I have a freakishly large imagination that demands representation in the parliament of my thoughts. 2) According to Adlerian doctrine, middle children are relatively revolutionary compared to their older and younger siblings–maybe the reason I’m so weird is because I’m a middle child and naturally tuned to the new and innovative. 3) I’m actually an alien and the reason I act so strange is because I’m supposed to topple western society through my weirdness.
And now, because I’m getting bored and I have to write six pages in my research paper today because my comp II professor is being a meanie-fofeenie, this is the end of the post. Bobsled.