Sometimes I’m so weird that I don’t want to hang out with myself.

Like last week, I dropped my concealer next to my sink and rather than pick it up, I promised myself I’d get 10 points if I remembered it the next day.

Okay, I’ll blame that one on foursquare.

I mean, you can’t start giving me points for going to work and telling me that I’m the mayor of my company without consequences. Now I don’t want to do anything unless I get points. Like this blog post, it’s worth 25 points. It’s a problem.

There’s more.

Last night I set the Sleep Cycle application on my phone. It monitors your movement and wakes you up during your lightest sleep mode within 30 minutes of your alarm time. Sounds good, right? Well, this morning I woke up naturally and realized I was likely in the motion-monitored time frame so I lay motionless until the soothing harp began to play, despite my urgent need to urinate.

This afternoon I googled “ninjas in Chicago.”

This evening I saw a family leaving the Sears portrait studio and I made plans to take Boy Toy Brad in for couples shots.

On the way home, a song told me to “put my hands up” and not only did I raise my arms but I also began giving passersby incredulous looks.

“What? What! Why my hands up?!”

And these aren’t recent developments.

As a child, I ate sand because it tasted like salt and I frequently read an arbitrary 3^rd grade science text book alone in the woods.

I told everyone my favorite color was light brown in kindergarten because I saw the opportunity to successfully trade in my reds and pinks for a brown crayon monopoly.

So now, it’s time to tag the blame and Indie rock fans, you get it because today I also traveled to Barnes and Noble, and what did I see there? I saw a table titled, “Humorous, Helpful and Odd.”

And now I want to write a book with that title. I want to write a book because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re a writer and because there are just so many damn shiny books in that store, what more will one hurt? Blue, pink, purple. All so shiny. And silver, yes silver. That’s the color I want my book to be.

I once bought a silver book that contradicted the theology I grew up with primarily because I thought I might be able to exchange it for a chocolate factory.

So little Indie rock fan who works at the Barnes and Noble in Plantation, Florida, it’s all your fault. You took your passion for carelessly named bands like Neon Indian and Vampire Weekend and you gave me hope with your arbitrary pairing of adjectives and books.

Hey, check this out. It looks like my feet are talking to each other when I move them like that.

Tagged as: weird