Why Am I A Freak Magnet?

*Originally Written Saturday, September 22, 2007*

I am a freak magnet.

I have made this statement many times throughout my life and it never ceases to amaze me that I keep saying it. But, I have never actually questioned why I am a freak magnet.  Until last night.

My right hip and knee were killing me last night from work. (But don’t worry -  I have a spare for both!) I wanted a chance to relax, have a couple beers (read: enough to kill any and all pain I had and may have for the next several days), watch some TV, and, if the mood struck, write.

All was going well (except for the writing part, naturally), when someone clapped their hand on my shoulder. I don’t know his real name, but he introduced himself as Andy Warhol Jr. a few weeks ago.  (Ok, if you’re a straight guy and you’re introducing yourself to someone with at least half a brain as Andy Warhol Jr., you’re not being funny; you’re being stupid and should expect to get questionable looks from people (me) as to any intelligence you may actually have.  And also, expect to have your true sexual orientation to be questioned as well – especially when talking to an open and out homo, like myself.) He’s a decent enough looking guy (Ok, yeah, I’d blow him.  I’m single and haven’t had sex in over a year.  Fuck off.) and has a pretty good knowledge of music, namely metal bands and a few of the bigger-name punk bands as well.  But that, it seems, is where his knowledge of anything else cuts off.

Andy, in his sloppy, drunk way, blathered on about different bands:  ones he’d seen in concert, which ones I did or did not like, the difference between music and bands from the 60’s and 70’s and the ones from the 90’s and today. I’ll admit he did make some interesting and valid points.  (Either that, or I had way too much to drink as well!) (Or, I was extremely desperate and hoping one of the times he leaned in real close to me, he would kiss me.  Yeah, I’m a douche.) But, after twenty minutes of his ranting, I had had enough.  (And he still hadn’t kissed me…) He kept talking almost non-stop for an hour.  I was too sore and tired to be bitchy (which, really, was a first for me), so I put up with it.  I just made sure I was kept in beers and the yummy pink shot of whatever-the-hell-it-is.  The bartender (and owner) made knowing gestures to me that I needed the drinks to deal with him, and not because I necessarily wanted them.  (I always want them!) Bless her heart.

During his slurred, compulsive talking (which became more slurred and compulsive with each passing beer he had), I got to thinking about why freaks gravitate towards me. Sure, I’m fat enough to have my own gravitational pull, but couldn’t it pull in some decent people every once in a while?  I had never really questioned this before.  It was always a statement; a fact.  But, after an hour with him last night (and another hour the week before which he could also only talk about music – and which he didn’t kiss me, either…) and going through the list of freaks who have heaved themselves into my life – even if for a brief moment – this year, I started wondering what is it about me that these people(?) find they can interrupt my life to expose me to their insanity?  Not finding an answer in my own mind, I asked a professional – the bartender.

Me:  Why I am I such a freak magnet?

Bartender:  (without missing a beat)  Because you always sit by yourself.  You look like you’re lonely and they are, too, so they strike up a conversation in hopes of alleviating both your loneliness.

Me:  Crap.

She hit it on the head. I always sit by myself, but not because I am lonely.  It’s because I WANT TO BE LEFT ALONE!!!  I’m not that social of a person.  I haven’t been for years.  Just because someone is sitting by themselves, does not always mean they are lonely.  Some just prefer their own company or just want some quiet time to themselves to relax (me).

The next time Andy (fuckwad) sees me at the bar and starts up a conversation, he better switch conversation topics, or, barring that, take me back to his place so I can suck his dick. If neither occur, my Inner Bitch will be forced to come out and deal appropriately (or not) with him, in which case it will probably leave him crying and curled up in a fetal position in his beer glass.  (Hey, I had to endure hours of his non-stop one-note yakking.  It’s my right to issue the man a couple minutes of verbal self-esteem slicing and dicing.)

(Have I mentioned I’m a bastard at times?)