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2007-01-15 @ 6:11 p.m.
dorks who talk so much even their cats run

"Hello, my name is awittykitty, and I am a dork"

Crowd assembled: "mumble, mumble, mumble, hello, awittykitty, mumble, mumble, mumble (crash, a chair falls over, which is not surprising since this is a Dorks Anonymous Meeting).

I have been nurturing this image of myself on Diaryland for the last 3 years that I am a cool person, but in truth, I err more on the side of dorkiness for the most part. I mean I was the girl who in seventh grade was nominated for Class President by my teacher and then didn't get a single vote, including myself, since I thought it would seem too boastful to actually VOTE FOR YOURSELF, thus providing perpetual punchlines for my evil Catholic School cohorts as the Girl Who Nobody Voted For.

I was also the girl in high school who fell down in the main high school quad in view of the entire school and managed to take down four additional people, ripping the knee of my "cool" polyester pantsuit from K-Mart. I can still hear the echoey movie-style laughter from all the kids standing around until finally some kind soul helped me up since I was hurt and covered in mud.

I then went on to true dork superstardom as the girl who went to a job interview three years ago with her dress on backwards. Yup. I'm certain that was the deciding factor, the whimsical touch in my wardrobe that convinced my boss to hire me, since my job involved working with mentally ill people and feh, do you think THEY'D notice something like that? Probably not.

But now, I say I'm an artist because I do art, but I sometimes wonder if deep down its not really a cover for my dorkiness...a sort of "Get Out of Dorky Free" Card. Because when I look around my art class on Wednesday night, there are no dorks. There are people dressed like dorks because they are "in on the joke" so to speak. They can wear the thick black Woody Allen glasses, and wrinkled checkered Sears slacks pulled up to their armpits with an oversized belt, but then they'll add a vintage Frank Zappa tee-shirt. I'll just look at them and say, "How did they do that?" I could never look cool like that. And I don't. I just wear jeans and black sweaters (in the winter) and black tank tops (in the summer). I do have the artist-appropriate black beret. I protect that thing with my life. I've driven great distances when I've forgotten it. Its my single element of somewhat coolness. I only wear it in the winter, of course. I'm not that "Grey Gardens".

But take away the beret....ask my cat, I'm a dork. I walk around my house talking to myself. Although I did once discuss this with "A". He talks to himself too. I've seen it. We decided it must be a sign of great strangeness intelligence. But I do it a lot. Like all the time. I do it everywhere. Especially in my car. A lot!!! I carry on lengthy conversations with whomever I'm angry at that week. Talking in your car is safer than punching somebody in the nose. Am I right?

Like say you're yelling at someone who wronged you 29 years ago, and suddenly somebody sees you at a stoplight and you have to adroitly and smoothly switch over to singing "Respect" with Aretha Franklin. Its an art, I tell you, an art!

But the talking to myself doesn't stop in the car. I think Guardcat actually thinks she lives with two people and in a way she does, since I'm bipolar. But poor kitty. I do have this constant stream of dialogue going (can you see why I need to write too?) and then I'll insert dialogue for her too, like "I'm way taller than you!" when I walk by her. That's like my all time personal favorite. And then there's "Where's Mommy's Baby" at about the same volume as Marlon Brando screaming, "Stella" in "A Streetcar Named Desire." I can't figure out why she runs and hides everytime I do that. I'm just trying to be affectionate. But I suppose there is a certain element of dorkiness for a middle aged women to be calling her cat, "Mommy's Baby" in Marlon Brando's voice.

Now all I need is for someone to slide right in there and be there to answer when I'm doing all this talking. That would be kismet. Especially for a World Class Dork. Because loquacious dorks in berets need love too. I mean big time.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty