His sense of humor infuriated me.
Just because everyone at camp was either white, Hispanic or Asian didn't give him the right to make black jokes even if it's supposedly 'funny' and used Michael Jackson as an example. You might think I'm an uptight bitch who can't take a joke but when it comes to skin colour, I never find anything amusing simply because my adoptive mother had endured too much racism for me to ever laugh at something someone said, no matter how lighthearted or blithe the manner they said it in was.
Don't ask me why no black kid wanted to go on this camp, they must've been the smarter race or something because so far, it poured with rain, everything was miserable and crappy, the food is atrocious and my room mate had a major snoring problem.
My group leader also had a smelly feet problem but don't distract me, I'm trying to introduce you to the guy who makes me want to vomit whenever he opens his big fat mouth.
His face reminds me of a rat. Sharp, pointy and cunning. His eyes were always roving and his demeanor can only be described as shifty. He unnerved me. Everyone else seems to relax around him but I always tense up as if expecting him to whip out some chloroform and bright purple switchblade, cut me into ribbons, steal my new stripy toe socks, and run off in the dark singing a Cher song.
Sometimes, I worry about my sanity too. It's no wonder that I don't have many friends.
His name is Frodo. Haha. I'm serious.
Well, okay, his middle name is, his actual name is Jake, but I call him Frodo, in my head. Yeah, like Id have the guts to call a guy who I'm convinced is going to cut me into ribbons with a bright purple switchblade Frodo. Not to mention in my premonition that he steals my new stripy toe socks! Have I told you about my toe sock obsession? No? You don't wanna go there.
"Janey! Why have you been staring cross eyed at the oak tree for the past five minutes?" He startles me by appearing out of nowhere.
"Murf," I mumble. I don't do well with sudden emergences. I bet my eyes aren't cross-eyed but I just stare at him as he slithers from behind the tree I was gazing at, lost in my own thoughts.
"Aren't you supposed to be helping with kitchen duties?" He asks evilly. I blanch. Camp kitchen duties suck. Between the greasy stains, boiling water, floating blobs in the sink, scrubbers that have grime stuck to the brushers and bossy lady in charge, toilet duties seem mild compared to what occurs in the kitchen at washing up time.
"That stick up your butt looks pretty comfortable", shot out of my mouth before I could even begin to think up a legitimate excuse as to why I was skiving chores.
I guess he's one of those people who accepts what they get and adjusts to people or learn about them quickly because he only raised his eyebrows in amusement and shrugs, strolling towards me with his hands behind his back.
My neurosis multiplies by a tenfold.
Bright purple switchblades dance across my mind. My hands start sweating and in my panic to back away from his approach. My worn out trainers somehow manage to make a weird farting noise. I look on mortified.
"I didn't see you at dinner," he grins as my fantasy, or rather, twisted nightmare of a daydream, vividly flash across my mind again.
"Why are you stalking me?" I squeak. Is it because he wants to finish me off? I knew I had the gift of foresight! In your face stupid school counselors who think I'm delusional!
"I'm not stalking you. Just concerned because my victim seems to have disappeared tonight." I gurgle. Yes, I gurgled. You know that broken bubbling sound your throat produces when you have a cow tongue stuck down your esophagus? I did just that.
Victim. The word plagued my poor, already screwed up mind.
"I can give you the socks, just leave my spleen intact!" I whimper when he bends down to level his face with mine.
Yes, I shall sacrifice my blessed socks if it means that I can survive without being inflicted. Me and pain is bad. I yowl like a no tomorrow and believe me; my vocals are not very pretty.
"You're so weird," he says to me as if expecting me to smile and congratulate him for stating the obvious.
"You smell like overcooked cabbages, dead leaves, smashed pumpkins and sour candy," I reply with a confused face.
"They told me you're schizophrenic," he says gently. I shrug.
"I don't have multiple personalities," I admonish. Most people assume schizophrenia means that I think I'm twelve different people in one body. They're uneducated and ignorant. I supposedly don't recognize reality from my imagination but nasty pills they shove down my throat has led me to lead a relevantly boring life so far. I just get caught up in my head at times. No big deal.
"I know what schizophrenia is Janey," he sits opposite me, hands still behind his back. Maybe they misdiagnosed me because right now I'm feeling like a paranoid schizophrenic. And I'm not crazy okay?!!
"Despite all your quirks, I can't seem to stop thinking of you," he mutters, almost inaudibly.
"Oh God, if you plan to bury me, don't bother, I'd rather be cremated," I stare at him with wide eyes, expecting him to manically cackle and pull out the chloroform any second now.
"Don't know why I bother," he starts mumbling broken sentences that I can't follow or understand before heaving and sighing non-stop.
"I paid $8.75 for my toe socks!" I just wanted him to know before I never seem them again.
"Janey?" I close my eyes, anticipating the pain and trying not to cringe or flinch.
The next thing I know is that my lips were being assaulted.
His sense of humor still infuriates me. But I don't mind as much now.
Camp didn't turn out so bad after all and I can now sleep at night without purple switch blades and twitchy blue eyes haunting my mind.
A fluffy, lighthearted comedic romantic piece about finding love from a schizophrenic's perspective, even though I'll never know if it's an accurate portrayl since I'm not schizophrenic myself. Dedicated to a friend of mine with schizophrenia and to combat the ignorance of society who think schziophrenia and schziophrenics are people with identity problems when they're not.