I’ve spent my entire life convinced that I’m normal and investing a pretty healthy amount of time making fun of basically every other person for being not normal.
And throughout the years, people have reinforced my behavior. Oh yes, you are funny! Check. That is absolutely an acceptable thing to say out loud! Check. Definitely ask that question, of course! Check.
Hi, I’m normal, nice to meet you, freak.
So, my family and friends are as much to blame as I am. I’ve clucked around with this unhindered certainty of my place in the world—not confidence, necessarily, just this sense that I was above a homeless person or
Lisa Turtle Lark Voorhies or that sorority sister who always threw up on herself or whatever, and that makes you feel secure in life, you know? I am better than you, because you have weird tendencies and I do not.
If that makes me a bad person, I’m okay with that.
So imagine how I felt when I had this swelling suspicion that a few people at work—how do I put this—thought that I was weird. I had no idea why, but for one thing, I have saucers for eyes, so I could tell this freaked people out when I just looked at them or talked. NOT MY FUCKING FAULT, BUTT NUGGETS. In the beginning I went through my same old mental routine, thinking to myself “OH, YOU DON’T LOVE KEYBOARD CAT OKAY I HATE YOU BYE” and I just assumed that they themselves were the weirds and couldn’t possibly render proper judgment upon me. Now go back to your freak hole and watch Two And A Half Men and The Big Bang Theory and we’ll call it a day.
But then I found myself perpetually trying to convince people of my normalcy: I’M NORMAL AND I KNOW IT AND I JUST NEED YOU TO BELIEVE ME.
Sit at lunch table with coworkers.
Tell tall tales.
Make seamless pop culture references.
This is where things started to spiral out of control. For those of you who keep up with me, you know I laugh at fucked up things like tampon jokes and talking about vaginas or bestiality and all sorts of weird things; and also, I rarely mean anything I say.
So, someone got on some ridiculous subject that they found hilarious, and I thought it was a great opportunity to segue into one of my favorite urban legends; some of you may have heard of it (but apparently not as many people as I thought). If you are squeamish or just don’t like squishy things, read no further.
A while back, my brother told me about the lo mein body urban legend. You can find the full story here, but basically it’s about a dude living in NYC who finds out the guy who is subletting in his apartment has a sex doll made out of lo mein. If you don’t quite understand, let me be more clear: he stuck his dick in a bunch of lo mein noodles molded in the form of a human body. I have to assume the were beef flavored, but because I can’t be sure, feel free to substitute in your favorite flavor.
So anyway, I told this story at lunch one day, with these great expectations that I was going to have this huge moment, some amazing coming out where the ground trembles and everyone realizes what an incredible dark horse I was. I imagined the people at my lunch table would hoist me up on their shoulders and declare me the “accidental funny girl” and then ask me to sign their babies’ faces and teach the wee babes my ways, so when they grew up they would have lots of friends and be totally normal and well-adjusted like me. Instead, I got a handful of confused blank stares, a few throat clears, and a mercy interjection with some ratchet news headline from that day.
In that moment, I was officially weird….And I’m not talking quirky dream girl weird. I was very close to going to the bathroom to cry and give myself a swirlie, but I remembered the last time I cried at work, and that was the end of that.
True, I was mortified at my comedic flub. But I was also disillusioned. Lo mein body is the ultimate litmus test, and they had failed, proving that their senses of humor could never live in my world, a world where there is humor in everything from Taylor Swift’s unyielding moose knuckle to the word ‘squirt’. Literally everything can be reasonably laughed at….which made me wonder—what does a person have to go through in their lifetime that they don’t find the lo mein body highly hilarious, horrifying, or at least fascinatingly worth a conversation? The only conceivable answer is that you just have to really suck donkey dick.
So how do I move forward from here, knowing half of my coworkers think I have dead bodies in my basement and that I like to fondle noodles in my spare time? No matter how much I want to send mass emails about the girl who sucked on her own tampon, because that is fucking batshit insane, and the world must know about it….I MUST REFRAIN FROM SPREADING MY WORD. (Plus I would never send that article in a work environment, because that is obviously weird).
So let this be remembered as the time I told the lo mein sex body story at work, and let it be a lesson to you all: Don’t talk about smelly sex dolls made out of Chinese takeout. Just because it’s funny to you, doesn’t mean it’s funny to everyone. Sort of like racism or sexism or Jerry Sandusky. Yes, kind of like that.