Sometimes there's people with problems. Not bad problems, but problems even they don't understand. Like me. I have a lot of problems, but I don't even know all of them. My problems are with my brain. I think weird. Talk about weird things. I think that I look weird as well. My stomach that hangs down over my abdomen. My half shaved head. My glasses that are so thick I can't have eye contacts. And even my sight is weird. I see only out of one eye. Which isn't normal, from what I've been told. I've been told you're supposed to be able to see clearly out of both eyes, not just clear in one and blurry in the other. 

   Are friends supposed to call you weird? I get told that a lot from my friends and I'm never sure if it's a joke or not. Either way it hurts when they call me that. Even if it is a joke, it stings. Like an angry bee in the winter when you try to get honey. 

   I feel I make the i in weird. That me, myself, and I just make up the word. I remember in 3rd grade I was called weird. The first time I remember the word. At first I didn't know what it meant. I thought it was a compliment coming from the pretty girls in the back of the class, that hangout with the boys. Peirce was one of my friends in class. He explained to me that weird meant you're not cool, to put it in 3rd grade terms. I was then a bit sad about the word and not fond of it. I went home and told my mom that I learned a new word, and she, of course, didn't care. She said,

“You are weird, deal with it.“

   She was never the loving mom, but I just listened to her anyways. I dealt with the word for the rest of elementary, then some in 6th and 7th by boys who said, “Ew, you're a girl, you can't play with us. Weirdo.“ And at that time I wasn't a girl, I didn't know what I was. 

   Recently, I've been called weird. By friends, family, bullies. For talking about what I wanna be when I grow up. I guess wanting to be a therapist for psychos isn't normal, but I never was. I used to sleep with my dog, he was my best friend since birth. We grew up together and I always slept in his cage, or in his dog bed next to him. I know that he's gone now. He was a big dog, an American Bulldog, and now I'm 15. So he would be 105 in dog years. But, the last time I saw him he was old, dirty and not being taken care of by my lazy grandma. I know my best friend is now gone, but it's better wherever he is then with her. 

   For being weird I haven't felt it till now. Till the word finally hit me, right in the chest to knock the wind out of me. I'm now laying on the floor as the black liquid rises. That sickness is infecting me. And for all the names I've been called, only two have hit the most. 

“Weird.“ and “Liar“.

   Now whenever I'm sad or depressed, I write on a blank white doc and soon the black liquid turns into the black ink on the white screen. Then I feel better, since my white heaven is bright again and that sea of plague is gone. Now the doc has to deal with my weirdness.