A Little Neurosis Goes a Long Way

There are days when I think I should have a warning label.

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Imagine your neuroses stamped daintily on a bracelet

I can be a handful. I have been described as being a little “extra.” I swear, I can’t help it. My brain is a weird place.

I feel like there should be bracelets that we can wear that have our neuroses stamped on them like bracelets people wear to alert others of their medical conditions. I just think this would make the world a much better place.

Of course, this would mean that we would need to know and own our neuroses for this to work. That is the hard part. Speaking for myself, this is not necessarily an issue.

Not only do I know and own my neuroses but it seems these days I find myself slapping a small coat and a collar on them and walk them around like they’re fucking Chihuahuas.

You know, like they’re beautiful and should be shared with the world. I completely understand this may not the case.

What’s fun is that there is a glory, satisfaction, and self-actualization I feel in realizing I am being a neurotic assclown. There is that moment of self-awareness that comes when you see what you’re doing and understand exactly why you’re doing it.

The horror is when I come to this realization about 3 minutes after doing something undeniably embarrassing.

I would like to think you would be surprised at how often this happens, but you really wouldn’t be.

This is where the bracelet would work out nicely. It would serve as a bit of a warning to people. I am not everyone’s cup of tea and that is fine. Not everyone is my cup of tea. People who beg for compliments and praise get under my skin just as much as people who are so self-deprecating that they can’t take a compliment.

I want to be able to tell you that you look nice, get a sincere thank you, and call it day. So, if your bracelet says “Can’t Take a Compliment”, I may keep you at arm’s length. Or, I might decide that all your other great qualities surpass your inability to take a compliment and I love you enough to look past it. I’ll still give you shit about it, though. At that point, you can show me your bracelet and say, “See! Look! You knew I was like this.”

I will nod and smile, pet your head, and go on loving your crazy ass anyway because we negotiated that deal.

I also think my life would be better if when I met people I just led with the slightly crazy shit. Let’s just get it out there because it’s gonna come out at some point and I have a proven track record that shows normalcy is just not my thing.

For example, I’m a pretty smart lady have a tendency to intellectualize even casual conversations. It sometimes makes me come across as a self righteous nerd. See? I get it. I know what I’m doing. But to you, unless you are warned ahead of time by my “Needs to Intellectualize” bracelet, you may find yourself in a situation like this:

You: Oh my God. I saw Neil DeGrasse Tyson on Jimmy Fallon last week and he totally schooled the flat earth people. It’s was hilarious. I love that guy.
Me: Oh, I love him too!
Also me: Goes home. Goes to Amazon. Orders book on astrophysics. Reads book on astrophysics. Reads reference material noted in book on astrophysics. Comes back to you and says:
Me: Hey! You remember that conversation about Neil DeGrasse Tyson three weeks ago? Well, I have been reading about dark matter and….
You: Bitch, I was just watching Jimmy Fallon…
Me: Oh.

This isn’t my only troublesome personality quirk. Notice I did not say flaw. I hold the delusional idea that some of these “quirks” make me absolutely darling and a joy to be around. If you disagree, please promptly lie to me. So, hypothetically, I could don a few bracelets. So my proposition is this: let’s actually make them out of that plastic rubber stuff like the bracelets you get at music festivals! That way, we don’t look weird if we’re wearing a bunch of them! We look like badass partygoers! Who’s with me?

Please feel free to leave a comment that I will totally overthink and overanalyze until I am sure you don’t find my “quirks” darling at all.

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