I Was Too Weird

[Listen to an audio version of this blog HERE.]

“I think I’m too weird for you,” I said.

“Why?” he replied, and if there were anything he could have said to cement my statement permanently and irrevocably, it would have been, “why?” Simply by asking “why?” he was exemplifying the truth of my soft accusation. Were he weird enough to understand me, he wouldn’t waste my time with such a pedestrian question. Instead, he would have said something like, “No my love, let me scratch behind your ears,” or, “That can’t possibly be true, as I’m far weirder,” or, “How about yams and horseradish for dinner?”

I was too weird for him, because when I decided to sleep on the floor for a week and stick glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling, he simply said “Why?” instead of understanding that I was replicating a camping trip to Joshua Tree, let’s say, or Yosemite. One must prepare for such things.

I was too weird for him, because when I wrote a poem about all the things in the world that are pink, including flamingos and bubble gum and vaginas and lemonade and sticky-note goodbye’s, he simply read it and said, “Why?” When he could have commented on the line breaks or use of the first person pronoun or argued that not all starbursts are pink, as the poem implies.