If you’ve ever been the “weird chick” — welcome to my den!
This is a space for hot weird people only.
Not hot weird? Be gone.
This is a space for hot weird people only.
Not hot weird? Be gone.
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What the hell is a weird girl? I never understood the label.
There is cognitive dissonance in my head about what’s considered weird, and that’s a direct result of my childhood environment. I’ll explain.
There is cognitive dissonance in my head about what’s considered weird, and that’s a direct result of my childhood environment. I’ll explain.
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My earliest memory of being called weird was in fourth grade, about 18 years ago.
I enrolled in a new elementary school and things were honestly kinda rocky — didn’t really vibe that much with the other kids. I was pretty expressive but introverted, and due to my ADHD I was often in my head, being creative and stuff.
Some months went by, and I had successfully made myself the most unpopular person in the building (still proud of that btw. Would do it again). But by then, I was familiar with my classmates, the classrooms, and how things worked.
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One morning, my teacher (who I’m pretty sure passed away a few years ago — tragic, but true — also my first bully at that school) decided she’d had enough of our faces and only wanted to look at the “pretty kids” from her desk.
So we rearranged our classroom, and our desks formed a Π. But there were too many of us and too little space, so two extra desks got shoved in the middle.
I was unlucky enough to be right in the center of the left side of the Π, which meant I was facing one of those extra desks directly. We formed a little island.
The girls at that desk — typical wannabe mean girls — had it out for me since day one. Especially one in particular, I’ll call her Betty, who made sure to humiliate me at every turn. I was the designated weird girl, and that label stuck.
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We resumed our lesson and in the midst, I got really thirsty. So I pulled out my water bottle, squeezed it, and gulped every droplet of Ζαγόρι (Greek equivalent of Fiji Water).
As I was putting out the fire within me, I noticed Betty doing some weird (like legit weird — definitely not hot weird) stuff. Little did I know in 2006 that I was about to witness a nightmare unfold in slow motion.
Betty sat there, in her little bob and white outfit. She was smirking like Goofy and then — boom 💥 💥 💥 — she stuck her finger up her nose. My eyes widened.
She retracted her hand, looked at the booger she’d rolled between her fingers, and then stuck it up the other nostril. Repeated the routine.
Then she smeared her booger fingers down her desk. Why the extra step? I still don’t know. Maybe she thought she was experimenting with seasoning.
And THEN…
Then it happened…
She opened her mouth, stuck her stinky little hand in there, and ate her own boogers.
With seasoning!
It all happened slowly but also really fast, if that makes sense. I watched it unfold, in terror.
And 11-year-old me — God bless — couldn’t handle it. 29-year-old me is also fighting demons just writing this down but #DoItForTheArt.
And 11-year-old me — God bless — couldn’t handle it. 29-year-old me is also fighting demons just writing this down but #DoItForTheArt.
I spat my water out; it flew in the air like thick mist. I also almost choked. And also Betty looked at me like I was the weirdo.
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So yeah, maybe I am a weird chick — but I’ve never treated my snot like a Michelin-starred steak with homemade seasoning.
At least I am not a public health hazard, Betty.
And if you disagree and think she wasn’t weird for doing her lil cooking experiments at school, well then… disgrace on you, on your family, and ON YOUR COW. May your days be filled with boogery hands touching your croissant and dipping into your coffee.
Enough said.
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In short:
As long as you’re not like Betty (or Betty specifically — girl, I’ve seen you creeping on my IG story, move on), you’re good. And if you’re also weird and hot… you’re more than good.
Now go out there and do some hot weird chick shit.
