People often say I'm dense. Which, upon further thought, cannot be a bad thing. As I'm relatively sure that it would mean that my brain is quite densely packed into the gap that is my skull. Meaning that I have ample brain cells. Wonderful. However, this raises a more worrying issue. Why am I so daft then? I drop things, forget things, get confused about anything more pressing than 'tea bag in cup, pour in water, add milk', and I seem to struggle finding anyone who sees things from my perspective.
I realise I am a little... eccentric. Because I have met my mother. And I get it from her. It's plainly obvious that in 20 years time, I will also be laughing at what appears to be nothing and forgetting which country I am in.
Somehow, finding the root cause of the problem doesn't make me feel any better. It shrouds the whole issue in a cloud of 'mother pity'. Like I can't resent my oddnes Because I inherited it from the beautiful person who gave me this world in the first place. Yes I can. I just seem like a twat for doing it.
When people close to you laugh. You're in with a small chance that they may be laughing with you, or at least affectionately, if it is AT you. But when a stranger behind you in the newsagent sniggers, and the man across the road starts playing the gullible game after meeting you twice, you can rest assured, there's something very wrong with you.
My brother is a bit of a plank. But he's good looking, successful, charismatic, and a Mummy's boy. No one ever told him that pigs eat children if they have long hair.
My sister is very strange. But she's a mathematical genius bookworm who rarely speaks to anyone for long enough for them to even hear what she's saying instead of staring at the gap in her teeth. No one ever introduced her to their parents as 'this is the one I told you about, who didn't know about flamingos'.
I wonder if I will ever be appreciated for my talents. Like Buckaroo. I don't have to have met you, but I'll bet you £100 that I'd win, hands down.
I make an amazing mushroom risotto. Well, I did it once but I can't remember what I put in it, and it's never been as good since. I can stay in the bath for more than an hour before my fingers and toes go wrinkly. It's probably a Guinness world record.
But my real passion is writing. I love it. But I very much doubt that I will ever be taken seriously as a writer when even I can't read my past posts without being completely and utterly embarrassed.
I don't know why I'm not normal but I don't think I'm weird. There has to be others like me. I'm just a rarity. Like a diamond. Just a dim one rather than a shiny one. I'm the diamond you find after digging for 35 years and losing 4 fingers. The diamond that looks amazing until you cut it and realise it doesn't really shine.
I don't suppose I mind that actually. At least I'm still a diamond. And I'm quite expensive and people might want to steal me.
No comments:
Post a Comment