When I was in the fifth grade a classmate asked me if I was an alien. He reported observing that I never sweat, (I was one of the only causations and it may not have shown), and that he never saw me go to the restroom (I held it all day).
I think his main reason for thinking so was that I was decidedly different from everyone else. I had given up trying to fit in and concentrated on being as different as possible. If I had no friends, at least being the weird kid put that in my control.
I loved the notion of being an alien. So I began to act even more abnormally. I wore two wristwatches. (This was half a decade before it was stylish.) I mixed my cafeteria food together in my milk carton and then ate it with a little bit of the carton too.
Most of all I made it no secret that I was an alien from another planet. I made up a history picked out Alpha Centauri as my real home and did my best to convince everyone. If I only convinced one person on the planet, it was me. Now I had a great reason that I didn’t fit in. I wasn’t even supposed to be there. I longed for the day that they would come and take me home.
If they came today I would have to tell them never mind. I have a place now.
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