This is yet another addition to previous articles titled "On Being Strange." It took me a while to decide to tell my story, but after reading the others, I realized that my being strange is a gift, not an omen. I am not ashamed of my weirdness anymore, because I now know that it's something special that I have that is unique to me and only me.
I am probably the weirdest person you will ever meet. I mean that seriously. I'm not insane, although sometimes my parents would beg to differ, I'm just really complex. No one to this point in my life has been able to fully understand me. I always read books in which the main character has a best friend who understands them completely. Their best friend can guess their every move, and the two share the same dreams and desires. I always used to wonder if that's just a fantasy world, or if people are really that simple. I hope other people aren't that simple. I mean, it's too predictable. It really is. I'd rather read about some person who nobody can figure out.
People have always been describing me as mysterious. And that I am. You can never, and I mean never, guess what I am thinking. And if I told you, you probably wouldn't understand me anyway.
Basically the reason that I am "strange" is because I think a lot. I don't say too much. I just think.... My mind is a constant flow of intellectually based ideas and thoughts. Now if that isn't "strange," I don't know what is!
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.