I'm pretty weird.
I don't say that in a twitter-bio "I'm soooo crazy!" kind of way. My weirdness is a practical part of my everyday life. For the most part, I'm a fan of my eccentricities, but they do come with a stock standard amount of bullshit.
I can't take credit for some of my weirdness: my ridiculous name, or my Russian heritage. Some of my weirdness is intentional: the way I sometimes dress, the things I choose to say or post, my hair (which was between purple, blue and green for the better part of the past year.) Still other bits of me, I'm not even sure of: my accent, for example. Did I choose not to acclimatise to the other kids' way of talking in Grade 1, because I'd decided I was a special BAMF whose cartoon voice was totes adorbs? I don't remember. I just know if I try to do a South African accent now, I sound like I've had a stroke.
I also walk funny. I walk a little splay-footed, and apparently I have a 'bouncy' walk. And I walk on my tip toes a lot of the time. I DON'T KNOW WHY. STOP ASKING.
Just for the peace of mind of those who actually know me ( so 98% of my blog audience [the other 2% is google traffic looking for naked Misha Collins pictures]) I don't feel seething hatred every time you ask me about my idiosyncrasies. People are naturally curious and I get that. I get hella curious about other people. But I only ask them about their weirdness once I've put in the time to get to know them.
What does inspire seething hatred is this:
People who think, because I am strange, that they're entitled to a performance.
"Pronounce your name for me?" is a constant one. I mostly get it from people behind computers needing to fill out forms. They can see it clearly, all they need to do is type it in. But no. They want me to say it. Because it's weird! Wow! Here I am, saying my own name over and over like a fucking Pokemon.
See, just because I disrupt your sense of order doesn't mean I'm a fucking exotic bird you have to interrogate (who the fuck would interrogate a bird anyway?) to find out its origins and reason for being. You are not a customs official at the aviary border patrol.
"Why is your hair purple?" It's genetic. No seriously, what am I supposed to say? Because I'm protesting the abuse of lavender fields? Do other people have compelling reasons for dyeing their hair? Not one single fucker asked me why my hair was red. Or brown. Or blonde (though somebody should have, that was a bleak couple of months.)
"You're Russian? Say something in Russian!"
Okay. Dance, monkey! Dance!
"That was English..."
"Why are you walking on your tiptoes?" BECAUSE THE FLOOR IS LAVA. No seriously, I have no idea why I do this. And. It. Doesn't. Matter.
Seriously. None of this matters. It's all just different flavours of the same uncomfortable one-sided conversation. "You're disrupting my sense of order! Explain yourself so I can categorise you!"
I'm still working on a not-ridiculously-rude way to opt out of these interactions. Like, maybe pulling my shirt over my head and hovering away?