Am I Brittany?

Sometimes, more often these days, I think there might be something missing in my brain to explain how retarded I am. (Like an enzyme, maybe.) I think that my family knows and hide it from me because they think it'll ruin me. I think they have secret meetings behind my back to discuss my abnormal antics and agree to play along with it. "She's talking to her teddy-bear again!" "Play along!" "She thinks she's Mary Poppins!" "Play along!" "She's jealous of the pet cat!" "Play along!" "She makes me come into the toilet while she's pooping to test my motherly love." "Just play along!"


At least once a month I'd ask my dad, "Dad, is there something wrong with me?"And his answer has never changed. "No, you're perfectly normal. It's everybody else that are weird." Sometimes, I think, that this is part of their mighty plan so I won't ever suspect my mental and intellectual handicap. He has also told me, "Pass or fail, I'll always be proud of you."


Today was one of those sad days that this above theory of mine seemed very credible. It's either that, or my whole family is a bit bonkers. Or that I'm just extremely blessed with an eccentric family that loves me incredibly.


Today was a sad day. Because I realised I wasn't as smart as at least I thought I was. In all honesty from my friends, I'm not smart at all. I'm neither book-smart, nor street-smart. Nor am I socially/relationally smart. Then what kind of 'smart' am I? (That was not a rhetorical question. It requires an answer.)

The awkward moment you realise you are bat-poop crazy Brittany (and not Finn's girlfriend)