The New Girl
Quirky. Idiosyncratic. Weirdo. Spaz. I have been called all of these things and more.
Call me what you will, because I can take it.
The way I see it?
Unique. Choosy. Sensitive. Enthusiastic.
Once when I was in elementary school, a New Girl showed up mid-year. We were all sizing her up. Little did I know, she was sizing me up, too. She shared her account with me, years later:
New Girl: I saw you sitting on the ground at recess. You were in your brownie uniform. You had a rock in your hand and were banging the rock on the ground and yelling.
Me: Like, yelling at someone? Yelling something specific?
New Girl: No, yelling like Bam Bam.
New Girl: So I went home and told my mom, “Mom, there’s a girl at school, and she was doing this…”
New Girl: And my mom said, “Honey, be nice to her. She’s probably retarded.”
I have shared a great deal with you, my five readers, including this good stuff here. In case you need more, I will leave you with some of my
I dislike settling down onto a warm toilet seat. You know, right after someone else has gone.
I dislike getting into an already-wet shower. I want to be the first.
I don’t like for the edge of the sheet and blanket to be touching me when I sleep. The sheet and blanket have to be folded down, just a few inches, so that my chin and neck are not being bumped by the edges.
I do not share drinks.
Or forks or spoons.
Lipstick on a glass, or even worse, or a sandwich, grosses me out.
I hate perfume. I’d rather smell
I don’t like burned coffee, so I have to go get mine before that happens.