normal

Steve and I were on our nightly walk (yes, we act like 70-year olds, we know) when we heard some preteen screeching. Some girl was sniffling and whining about the injustices of her brother shoving a hockey stick in her stomach. The dad pretended to be listening, but quickly shushed her as he saw Steve and I walk past. We both laughed out loud, which probably made this girl sob harder, being laughed at. But we weren’t laughing at her, rather at her dad. Shushing a faux-injured daughter so strangers don’t overhear. God forbid the neighbors hear, we want them to think we’re normal.

Really, nobody is normal. To me, normal is the absence of personality, of differentiation.

There is something I wrote once long ago, and I still think of it every once in awhile:

Being “weird” means nothing other than being different from the person who said it.

Let your freak flag fly.

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