Weird is wonderful, I don’t know where we got the idea that it isn’t. How did we all become convinced that we should try to be like everyone (or anyone) else? It must have been the work of the unimaginative masses, banding together out of fear like the sheep that they are.
I’m weird. Over the years I’ve embraced it although in my younger days, I think I tried to not be weird, striving to be more like the beautiful people. But that’s way too much trouble. And way less fun.
Mr. R. is weird, too. That’s probably why we work so well. We laugh a lot. Sometimes we make other people laugh, too, and that’s a bonus. We were shopping once in a department store when we ended up in women’s accessories. I turned to find my burly man, all six feet, four inches, and two hundred eighty pounds of him, mugging with a floral scarf on his head.
“You look like Doris Day,” I remarked.
“I get that a lot,” he retorted in his deep basso profondo. A woman browsing nearby nearly peed her pants.
The words normal and boring have the same number of letters. Coincidence? I think not.
So welcome, weird people. We’re glad you’re here.