Weird

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.