Hello, peoples of the internet. I am sorry for interrupting Clayburn's blog. There's been something troubling me. It's probably best that I post about it.
By the way, my name's Misunderstood Clayburn.
I have a little bit of a problem with society. Maybe it's not society in general, but at least the society with which I interact.
The other day I was at Wal-Mart buying grapes. I had my grapes in my basket and decided to browse the store before heading to the cash register. As I made my way to the electronic section, I realized that the women's underwear section was coming up on my right. My feeling is that section should be placed more discreetly at the center of the women's clothing section. Walking by it makes me very uncomfortable.
But the problem isn't the placement of the women's underwear. My problem is with some fellow shoppers. As I passed the bras and panties I deliberately tried to avoid eye contact with them, the bras and panties, not the shoppers. But then I felt that my avoidance was too obvious. I tried looking straight ahead. And that's when my eyes glanced over to my right. They had caught some motion among the underwear.
No sooner than my eyes arrived back at their appropriate viewing position, a shopper spoke out at me. "Hey," he said. "Were you just oogling the bras and panties?"
"Uh, no." I said.
"Ew, gross," a young lady announced. "He's a pervert!"
I tried to explain myself. Words came out but without order.
Then it hit me. No, not an idea, a rock. "Get out of here you nasty perv," another girl yelled. She had a handful of rocks, as though she had been waiting for a social pariah to come along for her target.
"Stop!" I screamed. I tried to leave the place, but they had me surrounded. The only opening was through the underwear section. I made a dash down the isle of bras.
"Oh, sick! He's smelling them."
"What a pervert!"
"He's probably getting off on this."
"Ew, he's disgusting."
"I can't believe he's checking out bras at Wal-Mart. That's probably the only ones he can ever see!"
Laughter and rocks flew at me as I ran for the exit, leaving my grapes behind. I made it safely to the parking lot and left Wal-Mart. On my way home I began to cry. Not so much for the mean things they said or the pain from the rocks. I cried because my grapes didn't make it out with me. I deserted them. They will be missed.
That was not the only time I've had rocks thrown at me. People often throw rocks at me and the reasons vary from my love of video games to the way I wear my mustache.
I have never understood what they hope to accomplish with the rock throwing. It seems as though they have a desire not to associate with weird freaks, such as myself. Perhaps that is a reasonable desire. I cannot say that I would have that desire, but then I'm one of the weird freaks. If I were normal, would I need to be so adimant about my stance against freakdom?
It's really something I don't understand. I suppose I can't understand. In the same way that normal people can't understand me. But I feel the difference is that I want to understand them, they don't wish to understand me. Sure, that's an assumption, but I feel the throwing of rocks can easily be interpreted as not caring to understand something.
Maybe you people can help me understand. Whether you're normal or weird, I feel you can lend something to the conversation. I'd like to hear your ideas and thoughts.
It feels a little better sharing this with the world. But I'm afraid the problem itself will never be solved. The threat of high impact stones will await me wherever I go.