I am That Girl.
No bullshit. You’ve heard about square pegs and round holes? Fuck that. I’m a heptagonal peg—that’s seven sides for anyone out there who failed geometry-slash-never read the Sideways Stories from Wayside School series—and I have yet to find a heptagonal hole.
Although technically, I think I’m the heptagonal hole waiting for a heptagonal peg.
I’m currently just over halfway through my first semester at a well-respected liberal arts college (meaning that I have the phrases “liberal arts” and “creative thought” bombarding me from every conceivable direction), and it’s taken me less than a semester to realize what a freak I really am.
In high school, I kept holding out for that magical, mystical land of college, where I would be free to go gamboling through fields and cavorting with other people who were just like me, while we drank lots of alcohol and wrote brilliant essays that changed the world.
I suppose one out of four isn’t too bad.
Suffice it to say, I thought that when I left the safety zone of my suburban hometown, I’d meet other weird people like me. After all, we’d all chosen to go to the same college, right?
Yeah, except that I’m apparently strange on a whole different level than the rest of the human race. It’s not that people dislike me, though I’ve been described as abrasive in the past, it’s that they don’t get me. I have an extremely odd sense of humor that really shouldn’t be defined, and no real filter between my brain and my mouth—although the filtration system inside my brain might rival Costner’s contraption in Waterworld.
I’ll use last night as an example: I went to the school’s improv comedy troupe show and yelled out increasingly obscure suggestions (Captain Planet makes a fascinating party guest, if you care). Then I was told there was a theater party later that night, with a theme of dressing up as someone else from the department. I unfortunately couldn’t get my friend to agree to switch clothes with me, so we went to the party and lied about being each other. No one was sober enough to care. It didn’t take long for me to realize: I’m on the fringe of most groups. I fit… sort of.
For those of you who don’t remember the wonderful years of your life known as ‘adolescence’ (which anagrams to “cad cones eel,” which sounds about as dirty as adolescence ought to be), the theater kids are the ultimate in mixing popularity with oddness. We have themed parties, we spend far too much time together, and often have a reputation as the most oversexed social group as a whole, matched mostly by the gay-straight alliance group.
There is a sizable overlap.
The result of being That Girl is that I look at the world with a rather unique blend of bemusement and amusement (that description makes me sound like an exotic tea. I like tea.) leading to observations that I tend to think are mildly profound.
Of course, that means that they’re not. I can still dream.
I don’t hate people, really—they fascinate me. I just don’t get them. It’s like Jane Goodall with the chimps, but if she actually looked like a chimp. I just want to watch them and try to figure out what the fuck they’re doing all the time.
That’s a really shitty analogy. Sorry.
Regardless, I am That Girl, and welcome to my blog.
Mind you don’t slip on the dripping sarcasm.