I Want to Take My Freak Flag Down

Freaks love me.  Everyone thinks that all the crazies find them, but in my case it's true.  I even have an explanation for it.  My grandfather was the unique individual that used to actually go out looking for freaks.  He even brought them home to give them tours of the addition my parents built for my grandmother and him.  True story.  My dad came home to find my grandfather showing someone the house, walking through every room.  My dad asked who it was and my grandfather said "I don't know.  I met him at the shopping center behind the house and brought him home to see the place."  The only logical explanation to draw from this is that my grandfather had the freak-gene.  It somehow mutated when passed to my mom, and subsequently me, and now the freaks come find us. 

If you have this gene (the mutated kind), it's very dangerous to be around others with the same aspect.  My friend and I had to stop going to one bar because we couldn't go there without being, essentially, harassed.  In one evening, an albino slammed his drink down next to us and stormed out because we spurned his advances; I was delayed on my way to the bathroom by a group of guys by the foosball table telling me that they went to "Spring Break University" because (as I had learned at that very moment) that's what my t-shirt said; and was cornered by the regular old-drunk-guy for so long that the bartenders gave us money to play the jukebox, just so that they could get rid of old-drunk-guy for us.  This is not to say being with other people make you safer.  Another night (at the same bar) I was invited to play pool by the boyfriend of some girl sitting next to me, just so I didn't attack this guy that kept calling me Clifford (because I reminded him of the big red dog. . . red hair and pigtails are apparently enough to spark such memories).  You can see why I've tried to avoid going back to that bar since the bartender that protected me left.  One of the few times I did go back, my friend and I had to actually leave and go to another bar to get away from my most recent admirer.  Luckily, I've gotten enough practice putting my "Get the hell away from me" face on that I haven't had too many ridiculous experiences like that in a while. . . let's keep our fingers crossed, shall we?