"If I had known it was harmless I would have killed it myself"

"I dedicate this song to my boys who are strong

They just don't go along"

 

Kill Hannah - Unwanted

 

 

I tried the NYTimes Wordle last year for about 100 days. The results weren't terrible, 95% success rate before they cut off my stats to force me to create an account, which forced me to quit altogether. Despite losing my patience and throwing the game several times (the only word I honestly tried and couldn't suss was "ninja" (in my defense, they're sneaky)) I could manage most by the fourth line. But leaving aside my recalcitrant nonconformism, I found the experience reminiscent of text adventure games. Your minds are simply too alien for me to read.

Or maybe I'm weird.

Back when playing City of Heroes, I'd set up a pretty nifty hero base and fang shooed the base teleporters according to both general map directions and target zone levels in a way that made intuitive sense to me. Logging in one evening, I was shocked to find my sole remaining active partner in the guild had remodeled and rearranged the tubes in some utterly incomprehensible, meaningless fashion. I was livid! For something like fifteen minutes I wandered the base back and forth struggling in vain to make heads or tails of why and how he'd scrambled my handy pattern, working myself into a fine lather mentally workshopping just how I'd take him to task for his vandalism. I couldn't make heads or tails of the order he'd chosen. It was insane, it was wrong, it was evil, it was... alphabetical.

Oh.

So maybe I'm weird.

Seeing my car low on gas inflicted on me, as it does on occasion, a twinge of guilt at my consumption of this critical resource. Maybe I should take the bus to the supermarket, maybe I should walk to pick up my pizza, maybe I should walk around the block instead of driving to the woods to walk the trails. At the same time the car had developed an odd vibration when I pressed the brakes. Worried my new brake pads might be faulty, I took it in. Diagnosis: rust. Rusted brakes from not driving often enough.

The company from which I ordered this computer started spamming my e-mail with a-may-zing low-low-offers on brand-sparking-new top-quality systems. I wondered why the sudden flux, when I hadn't heard from them since my purchase a couple years prior, then realized: they can't expect you to buy a second one right away, right? So apparently, two years is the accepted timeframe in which to buy a whole new computer! My last one lasted over a decade, and the switch was prompted by Microsoft forcing planned obsolescence with Windows versions. My previous one seven or eight years. I'm planning on making this one live to fifteen, a couple component swaps notwithstanding. Even assuming the company's 2yr estimate is estimated in their interest and doubling it, buying a new system every four years is something I thought a relic of the '90s when crucial technologies like modems and floppy disks were changing from year to year and components were still routinely being damaged by heat.

But maybe I'm weird.

I felt guilty grabbing take-out or fast food instead of supermarket fare until I noticed the restaurant was packed to overflowing as is every other eatery's parking lot every day of the week. Only then did I remember for half of Americans it's a daily routine.

I felt guilty throwing out a sock or shirt every couple of months, or buying a new pair of sneakers when my old one's heels fall apart, until I ran across the jaw-dropping statistic that I'm supposed to be throwing out 37 kilos of clothes a year! How?!? Even allowing for that average to have been, say, doubled by factory overstock that never reaches consumers, how can you manage tossing a suitcase of clothes every year? Guess I could shop for disposable lead undies or something.

I felt guilty about my electric and water bills until utility companies started including usage statistics on the bills, which put me at about 1/2-2/3 of my neighbours' consumption, this being near a college surrounded by single-occupant, one-bedroom apartments. But as I write this amidst a locally chilly April, I can already hear an air conditioner running across the street.

 

So maybe I never realized how weird I am.

I remember some years ago, having gone back to college, voicing some difficulty finishing a professor's exams within the hour. The girl I was talking to helpfully suggested I tell them I'm disabled. What? Yeah, sure, just go to the counseling center and tell 'em you're disabled. They'll let you take the test in private and take however much time you need.

No, I did not do that. I dropped the course. So yeah, I'm a great big waste, I'm a failure, and maybe I'm weird. Because it never occured to me to weaponize my weirdness. At least not against anyone except myself.

 

You want success? You want this world? You can keep it.