I have this strange urge to tell people little quirks about me. Not because I am proud of the quirks. Actually, it’s more because I am ashamed of them and want to get them out in the open. As a way of saying, “This is me. I know it’s not great but here it is, take it as it is or run away now.” And I’m understanding when they choose the latter. They’ve chosen the latter more than I care to remember.
I think I like to do it this way because I am very uncomfortable pretending not to be weird. I am just kind of a weird person and for me to act like I’m not causes extreme misunderstanding for everyone involved, and also sweaty palms for me. So if I shake your hand and immediately tell you that I do not like to open or drain cans of tuna, please process that as “Hi! I want us to be friends! Let’s be honest with each other.” instead of “Hi! I am a little off and have a problem with boundaries!”
Truthfully, maybe I do have a problem with boundaries. But maybe you do, too. Maybe the whole goddamn world does. Maybe our problem is those boundaries we’ve created. Don’t you think it’d be easier to know people and interact with each other if we were all up front about our strange issues? Fuckin’ A right it would.
I would have absolutely loved to know that one of my ex-boyfriends was into golden showers right at the get-go. Or at least sometime shortly after the get-go. Would’ve saved me three years of relationship life that I’ll never get back. Perhaps that is an extreme example. But you see my point, no?
Yes, I see that getting to know all those little things about someone is part of the fun of… getting to know them. But can’t we just start getting to know each other sooner? I am getting too old to wait. So are you.
Here I am, world. I am weird. I just… am.
I get mad when someone takes the first sip of my drink.
I don’t really enjoy talking while riding in a car.
I tend to blather on and on when I’m nervous.
I don’t want to hug you if I’ve known you less than three years and sometimes don’t ever want to hug you if our hugs don’t mesh well.
I freak out (internally) when people are visiting my home.
I offer my quirks to the receiver as both an apology and a plea: I’m sorry that these are my things. I can’t change them. They are as me as my skin and bones. Maybe they are my skin and bones. Could you love me despite them? Better yet, could you love me because of them?