I’m the textbook misfit. The squashed puzzle piece that somehow ended up in the wrong jigsaw box. I don’t belong in many places. It’s always been like this.
At school, I was a goth whose goofy side meant I wasn’t clique-sized. My impersonation of Pee Wee Herman marked me out as an idiot,and the haircuts didn’t like that. How dare I like The Cure and comedy. Begone, weirdo.
This is possibly why I find solace in the arts oddballs. Bjork, Tim Burton, Grace Jones, David Bowie, RuPaul, Angela Carter, Babes In Toyland, Ezra Furman. None of them belonged, they were very much their own niche, beyond genre or category.
Outsiders are often sitting alone at the party. It’s not because they’re boring though; more often than not, the party is. They can see through the contrivance of social gathering etiquette to the other side, peeking through the crack to where spontaneity lies.
Beware the popular, the charismatic, the loudmouthed. They’ve usually bought their friends. And more often than not, they have nothing to say, anyway. Look sideways. Just out of your purview, sits the misfit, dreaming, plotting, scheming. They may look quiet, but trust me, they’re up to something.
Hit The North 
because I’m in the same club (o, wait, misfits and outsiders don’t have clubs) and have had so much alone time to think about this, here’s where I come out on those who fit in, the insiders: they’re afraid. too afraid to stand out, be different, make art, speak their own mind. so when they encounter someone like you, or me, I think what they really are afraid of and sadly often lash out against is what’s inside of them. it’s them, not us.
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Yes indeedy. We are all Weird Barbie. Wave yr freak flag high 😊
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