Weird
A few days ago, some enterprising and thoroughly admirable individual/s covered the Humanities building with literary quotes scrawled in cursive chalk. Graffiti at its best and most proliferative. Barely any part of the pavements, sidewalks, walls and even trees had escaped this creative artistry.
That evening when I walked into the kitchen, I was immediately assaulted.
"It was you, wasn't it."
"I saw it and I thought, man, Rachel's been up to her things again."
"It had to be you, blatantly."
"I saw it and I immediately told my friend, mate, I reckon I know who did it. I have this friend on my corridor..."
Ergo: all my friends think I am batty. I'm like, it wasn't me. Sure, they grinned, unleashing a slough of knowing winks at me.
"I mean, you collect jokers mate. That's like, weird," Craig observes, after singing a song about spaghetti hoops.
"Oh come on. People collect coins, stamps. Postcards." Me, in self defense, and thinking that singing songs about spaghetti hoops is, conceivably, also quite weird.
"Collecting coins and stamps is sad. Collecting jokers is just, weird."
People collect money they'll never use, thought Rachel, and they put them in places that take the actual money and give you a piece of paper with numbers on it in return. But she didn't say it out loud, because it was quite, you know, weird.