Skip to main content

Spinach: Zombie Sheep (part 1).

There are people in this world who don’t quite fit into society.  


            If people were puzzle pieces, they would be the unidentified extras, the empty gaps,     
               the soggy chewed up pieces that fall off the table and get noshed on by the dog.
  

They live their lives feeling unnecessary, lost, destroyed.  In a world that celebrates conformity, if not uniformity, allowances are made for puzzle pieces to be different shapes, colors, and sizes.
But if they don’t fit together, they’re either pounded on until they do, or thrown away.  

Rejected.  

Not because they’re of less worth than any other piece.  All puzzle pieces are simply shaped bits of cardboard, after all.  But because their purpose is not immediately visible.  


Okay, that said, I’m not a fan of misfits, myself included.  They’re awkward and annoying and sometimes they want to kill you.  But they play an important role in society, I would argue even a critical role.  
There is a need for every single one of them.  

A purpose.  

A reason.  

So, if you feel like a misfit, just send me two hundred dollars and I’ll mail you my special pamphlet, titled:  “You’re So Special:  Why you are important to society even if you’ve lived your whole life being told otherwise.”  This pamphlet will explore this topic further, telling you all the things you thought you would be told in this article, and filling you in on the deepest secrets of the universe which you never thought you could know.  For an extra $399.99, you could also buy a signed copy of my autobiography:  “Puzzle Piece to President:  How I overcame obstacles and made three million close personal friends while becoming rich and famous, and how you can do the same!”  


To be cont.  (obviously...if you haven’t figured it out, there isn’t nothing I loathe more than a click-bait-y article.  I would never leave you hanging like that, and I know you’re just dying to hear my opinion on why weirdos should be proud of themselves instead of skulking in the gutters.  Plus, we haven’t even gotten to the Zombie Sheep yet, and that’s the best part!)



Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Noodles: It’s autumn, all of you.

Hi world.  It’s me, your favorite super sheltered, extremely Scandinavian, strangely endearing pile of soggy, tomato-drenched crinkly noodles! Otherwise known as Baby Swedish Lasagna under an Inadequate Tent. The reason I bring up my origins is this: I grew up without hearing anyone say “y’all”.  I believe the contraction never crossed my path outside of a book until middle school, when it became trendy among my equally sheltered, pale-skinned friends. I started saying it often, with little understanding of its pronunciation, spelling, or proper usage. At some point, perhaps in a fit of cultural sensitivity, maybe after the madness of middle school had seeped out of my neurons, I stopped using it. Except in emails. Yes, my friends, I am an email y’aller.  It just works for the already-awkward group conversations.  There’s honestly no equivalent in northern dialect.  Check it out. “You guys.”  Offensive to feminists. “You girls.”  Offensive...

Noodles: There are just some things you can’t ask your doctor.

So you turn instead to Google and let your questions be seen by all the world, including snoops like me. I happened to look up a strange sensation I’ve been experiencing lately (yes, I do it too, and yes, I’m probably on the brink of death) that involves a crawling sensation on the back of my scalp.  Since it’s not tick season, I assume it’s a tiny person attempting to scale my head in order to have a look around.  Unfortunately, I wear a lot of hats this time of year so even if they make it to the top, they aren’t likely to see much. But that’s not the point. If you ask Google to give you any information involving tingling sensations and your own head, it will immediately throw at you a list of questions asked by similar unfortunate individuals, along with the all-knowing answers provided by an unspecified internet friend. Some of them make you shake your head in pity, such as this sad, lonely soul, who asks, “Can I test myself for a brain tumor?” The answer is undecided...

Noodles: Cake.

I once read that humorists live small, pitiful lives.  Which is true, if you think about it.  It’s hard to joke about, say, sacrificing your life for the common good of your fellow humans.  Great people are rarely funny people.  Even when they have a sense of humor, what will they laugh about?   “Today?  Huh huh huh yuk yuk....Todaaay, I hugged TWENTY LEPERS and prayed soft prayers with them in the candlelight and three of them experienced miraculous healing!  IS THAT LIKE NOT THE MOST HYYYSTERICAL THING YOU HAVE EVER HEARDDD???  I mean, com’on!!!!!!”   On the extreme other end of the spectrum, you have, for example, me.  I will probably never pilot a spaceship to Mars and bring back a strange new mineral that cures all diseases.  But I will, with alarming regularity, experience trivial little setbacks in my journey up the vertical glacier of social acceptance.   Take today.   We had cake in the ...