Surrender to the many flags of Freaklandia.

I am a weird person. And I don't mean weird in that precious, "But everyone's unique!" kind of way. No. I'm talking about a level of weird that sometimes, in private, I'll do or say something that takes even me aback. Like, "Damn, girl; what the fuck?"

Granted, I've become very desensitized to myself, so the above occurrences are few and far in between. It's actually somewhat refreshing when I do something self-shocking, because it's an indication I'm still a-growing, still a-changing. Or whatever.

But also, utilizing the corny wisdom I've been gifted with aging, I've slowly learned that "weird" is just a social construct in the same way that "normal" is. Both of them are made up bullshit concepts. So while in the past I've chided myself for my bizarre little ticks or habits, of which there are many, I inspect them now and think, "Well, why exactly are they weird? Why do they make me weird? Why do other behaviors make other people more normal?" They don't. People are just people.

So go ahead: surrender to that fantasy of streaking at a Mets game. Live your life! Let that freak flag fly!

I take that back, don't do that—that's poor advice. You will most likely get arrested.

Vintage Sandra Rubel silk-velvet top; Zara satin pants and calf hair sneakers; Forever 21 earrings; Michaels bead bracelet; Goody hairband