I want to know:
Where is Mr. Normal?
A psychic told me I’d meet a lot of turkeys before the right guy came along.
And any way you slice it I don’t want those “turkeys” on a deli sandwich–or anywhere in my life.
I do not say this in a vain or boastful way–it’s simply a fact that I’m skinny and have a pretty face. This causes OKCupid guys to send me messages because they only want to go to bed with an attractive woman.
Some are 0 percent matches. Others don’t read my profile essay.
Either way you slice it, dice it, slather on mustard and slap it between two slices of bread the term is turkeys to describe a lot of so-called normal guys.
I should respond to those blatantly horny guys with the message:
“I was diagnosed with schizophrenia. Now do you want to f*ck me?”
Seriously. It’s why I’m so over coveting having so-called normal guys accept me when I go on a date and could worry they’d think I’m crazy.
Hearing the word crazy has no power over me because I know I’m not–so I don’t imbue that word with meaning. You want to call me crazy–go right ahead.
It’s because a lot of people without mental illnesses aren’t normal either.
I think it’s garbanzo beans that the only guys that send me messages are tools. Now you see: normal isn’t what it’s cracked up to be.
Women diagnosed with schizophrenia deserve better.
The day is coming when I respond to those guys by saying:
“See my gorgeous body? Well, I was diagnosed with schizophrenia–and this is what a person diagnosed with schizophrenia looks like.”
My own hairdresser insisted you can’t tell by looking at someone whether they have a mental illness.
I’ll end here by saying those turkeys could be sandwiched between two slices of Wonder Bread yet who would want to eat them?
We should not live in fear that deli meat thinks we’re crazy.
Really: normal people shouldn’t hold sway over us as being the arbiters of our self-worth.
Give me a real Thanksgiving dinner not unhealthful food loaded with nitrates.
Deli meat indeed.