I think I must be odd.
Not odd, weird.
I think my friends think I am weird.
I think when I am not there they tell each other how weird I
am.
I think they tell each other this, that I am weird, even when
I am there, among them.
They look at each other and nod and roll their eyes, and their
heads say, “That’s just Alan. He’s weird.”
I think they think they tell me I am weird.
I think they think if I would just stop doing these weird
things and saying these weird things I wouldn’t be weird anymore. I think they
would like it if I wasn’t weird.
I think they tell me directly and clearly right to my face in no uncertain terms that I am weird and also what it is that if
I stopped doing it I would stop being weird, instantly. I think they think that that would be better.
That would, of course, be better.
I think they think I hear them, they are so clear and so direct and so unequivocal.
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