I spend a lot of time—too much time, I’m sure—wondering if I’m weird. Really, I don’t think I’m all that strange, or at least, I don’t think it’s noticeable right off the bat. If you ask me, I think I mostly seem like a very ordinary, sort of shy girl. But others often mention that I’m weird, and that they could tell right away. There’s definitely nothing wrong with being not totally normal. Normal is boring, the hackneyed saying goes. And I guess I am a little weird. I wear my skirts too short and I lie for no reason at all. I laugh too loud, and usually before the punchline. I do silly dances and I make bad jokes when I first meet people. My speech is usually interspersed with um’s and yeah’s and awkward pauses because I’m always so damn nervous. I wear flowers in my hair just because, and I remember everything a person said the first time we meet, and when I drink I get way, way too confessional. I cry during almost every movie I see and I brake for squirrels. I am pretty sure that I am literally the strangest looking person in the whole wide world. I look away when I pass people I know, convinced they don’t remember me. I coo and ooh and ahh when I drive by cows grazing in pastures. My jokes tend toward the vulgar, and I’m beyond nervous in front of a camera, and I make up silly names for everything in my apartment: the blankets, the refrigerator, the cooking utensils, the chairs. What a weirdo.