(Photo stolen from these guys)
Crazy people seek me out. I do not go looking. They just find me.
Like the chain-smoking restaurant cashier, Barb, who declared that NASA was a sham and that the U.S. should have taken all the money it had ever spent on space exploration and divided it up among the world's poor. Good plan. Even at 21 I knew she was a crabby old loon with a crap personality, but it was SHE who came looking for ME. That I couldn't explain.
Or the pathological liar with whom I was friends in high school. I'd ask her a simple question, and she'd stare at me for two seconds too long, blink and then make up an insanely complicated story. Really? How did you find me? I was thinking.
Then there was the 20-something guy on a beach halfway around the world when I was a teenager. He came bounding up to me, high as a kite, ranting about something. I wasn't scared, just equally fascinated and repulsed. "YOU KNOW THAT GUY RUPERT MURDOCH?!" he screamed.
"No," I answered, because I didn't.
"WELL, I'M HIM!" he continued, without noticing my answer. "HE'S ME, I MEAN -- THAT'S ME!"
"Super," I answered without conviction. What else do you say to a loony? "Have a good evening."
How about the woman who liked to do impressions of black people in public? Sometimes when black people were present? She never said anything derogatory, but the whole issue of stereotypical impersonations -- especially poorly executed ones -- seemed grossly tasteless to me.
What all of these buttheaded types had in common was that they sought ME ought, not the other way around. I must have an invisible sign on my person: "Weirdos, Jerks and Clueless Types, Please Come Talk To Me!"
So if you approached me before I approached you, you probably ought to worry. Also, have a good evening.