I hate how people think I’m weird. I really do.
Not friends and family members. But strangers. Like here, in the Sunburst coffee shop. I’m the type of person who talks to absolutely everybody. Who asks questions—often out of genuine curiosity, sometimes just for chitchat. Usually, it goes over well. But not always. At times, people clearly find the conversationalist (in this case, me) to either be flirty or creepy or both.
I’m certainly not flirty, and rarely have been. But I am chatty. I just like talking. And talking. And talking. I never text, A. Because I don’t know how; and B. Because I don’t want to. Unlike my wife, I dig hearing someone’s voice for two seconds, even if it’s just to ask about the milk. I’m a fan of personal contact; of interaction; of asking random questions and seeking random answers.
But, again, it doesn’t always work out. And, as a result, people look at me funny. Maybe I should carry one of my books around, just to say, “Hey! I’m not weird! Look! I have a book!” But that actually would make me weird.
So I’m stuck.
Damn.
