I am normal, you are not.

I come from an extended family of Mouth Kissers. When it comes time to leave a family gathering, we gather in each others arms and kiss, lips-to-lips. Never in my life did I find it strange that I kissed Aunt Gerry on the mouth until a random thought hit me when I was in high school: Is that normal? I mean, it’s not like I’m exchanging French kisses with aunts and uncles, but is this what other people do? 

It’s a question that’s haunted me ever since, and I’ve realized that the answer is No, but they’re the weird ones.

In short, I am normal. You are not.

I am normal because our family’s dishwasher broke when I was 12 years old. Though it might have been a relatively simple fix, we will never know, because no one ever called the repairman. Ever since, we washed the dishes by hand. The dishwasher sits there, deteriorating in its misuse next to the kitchen sink, and I have since forgotten how to operate this particular piece of (relatively) common household machinery. Thus, when it’s time to be helpful when eating at other friends’ homes, and someone asks me to “run the dishwasher,” I give them that open-mouthed stare made famous by the lobotomized.

I am normal because our mother used phrases like “I don’t care if you eat Oreos until your teeth fall out,” if she didn’t feel like giving us a better reason why one shouldn’t eat Oreos for breakfast. Thus, when she told me I could eat Oreos for breakfast on my tenth birthday, it was kind of…anticlimactic.

I am normal because I have only had friends spend the night at my house twice. Once, when I was in first grade. The second time was when I was in college, and my friends and I decided to take a road trip to St. Louis for Spring Break (screw Florida). I arrived unannounced, because I knew my mom would say no if I asked. Okay, so that was a pretty douche move on my part. I take it back. I’m not normal, I’m a bitch.

Et cetera

Et cetera

Et cetera.

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