What do you call a sex chocolate?

Jun 4, 2014 by

“I like Maria because she’s weird.”

– My best friend’s little brother (circa 2006)

 

          When I met Olivia’s brother, he was 10 years old. I will never get over the first thing he ever said to me: “What do you call a sex chocolate?”

          Stunned that this was coming from the mouth of a fifth grader, I had no idea.

          “A fucklet!” he answered his own question with a girlish giggle. (Aw! I miss that high-pitched squeal! He’s obviously grown out of it.)

          Dying of laughter, I asked, “Where did you hear that?”

          “I made it up,” he shrugged.

          My laughter still persists at the memory.

          I will also never forget that, shortly following the punch of his joke and after overhearing me rant to Olivia about some guy I liked at the time that def did not reciprocate my interest, he straight-up told me, “Maria, he doesn’t like you. There’s no hope. Hope is dead! He’s dead!” (If he had insight into my current boy prob, he’d probably say the same.)

          This was the harshest 10-year-old I had ever met, so when Olivia told me he liked me because I’m weird, I was heart-melted (and laughing hysterically). Weird typically has a negative connotation, but I find it flattering. To me, it’s synonymous with different, and I strive to be different. I always have. I’ve always been opinionated and unafraid of standing by my values, even if other people disagree with them. I despise conformity, because to conform is to live for other people. I also hate the concept of normality. It implies that there is a perfect standard (obviously predetermined by society #ew!) that we should all be working toward. Worse, normality fuels conformity. It’s disgusting. I want nothing to do with either. I am certainly not normal. None of us are, because normal does not exist. I am, however, weird, and one of the weirdest things about me is probably that I’m proud of it. I’m the girl who eats peanut butter like it’s the only form of sustenance in existence, who uses peeing as her motivation to finish things (seriously, I was not allowed to pee until I read X number of chapters when studying for university exams), and who tells guys exactly how she wants to be kissed.  I flaunt my weirdness like a prize. This makes me different, and there are no compliments I value more highly than those acknowledging that I am different.

Happiness Tip: Be weird.

 
Previous: Lesson Learned? Next: Don’t Be Good
 

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