[Carlisle and I are playing a word game on my phone when a customer strides in and surveys the store. They are wearing pink camouflage sweatpants, a ribbed, skintight, see-through shirt, and a shoulder-length wig the color of cotton candy, if cotton candy were radioactive.]
Me: “Hi! Let me know if I can help you find anything.”
Customer: “Ew. This is the place with all that freaky shit.”
And I was like, “THE ONLY FREAKY THING IN HERE IS THAT WIG, YOU DAMN FRAGGLE.” But, y’know, quietly. To myself. Days later.
I have really got to work on both the timeliness of my snappy comebacks and the wherewithal to defend my modest freakdom against the freak judgement of freaks who think my freakiness is freakier than their freakiness.
I might also need a thesaurus. Maybe I’ll start with that.