We all have our quirks, right?
I don’t like things to touch the front of my neck.
You’ll never ever catch me in a turtleneck, choker necklace, or a t-shirt that isn’t a V-neck. Things touching the front of my neck make me feel like I’m choking.
I’ve broken my nose four times.
It hangs to the right of my face. I rub it constantly because it itches, and I believe the rubbing causes it to become more even more crooked. I always think it’s bleeding or has snot coming out of it, even though it doesn’t.
I Photoshop it to the middle of my face for all of my headshots. Here is a snapshot of me without Photoshopping. Notice how the arrow is straight, and my nose veers off to the side.
I’ve never had a surgery before, so thought of fixing it terrifies me.
I take that back, I had two molars pulled out of the back of my mouth, and they had to put me under when I was 16 years-old. I told the nurse to “fuck off” as I came out of anesthesia, and my dad laughed. He’d never heard me swear before that day.
I never grew any wisdom teeth. Oh, and I always wanted braces, and was sad that I never needed them, so I would put paperclips in mouth and pretend. That’s weird, too.
I never use the same towel or glass twice.
I wish I could reuse things, but the thought of using the same towel to dry off with two days in a row makes me gag. What if there was the tiniest speck of dirt on the reused towel and now I redirty myself? What if mold grew on the towel overnight? When I get out of the shower, I like to be 100% spotless.
I cannot drink from the same glass/cup twice. I will get a new glass each time I want a refill because I think particles of dust float around in the air and land in my glass. I believe I can taste the dust particles.
The only time I don’t care about reusing a glass is when I’m drinking alcohol. I figure alcohol kills particles of dust.
I think roadside memorials are rude.
This seems harsh, but I fear that someone will die in my yard and cause a roadside memorial.
I feel bad for homeowners who have to mow around a crusty old teddy for three years because they don’t want to be the jerk that threw it away. Now they’re stuck with a cross with names on it as a constant reminder of that day that someone died in their front yard.
I want to go on the record. When I die, please just make my memorial at the cemetery. But don’t bury me. Bugs freak me out. I want to be cremated and put in a mausoleum.
When I was little, I didn’t think my dad could read very well.
He would always yell at us, I’M TRYING TO READ THE NEWSPAPER!
He would read us children’s books, but beyond that, I figured reading was a struggle since newspapers seemed so difficult for him.
Turns out, he can read just fine, he just wanted us to shut up.
Okay, tell me, what’s weird about you?