I like my beer warm and my pants off.
I am Kyle.
I am a Philosophy/History double major.
I hate being called weird. I swear to god. It’s so blunt. It’s so unflattering. It’s such a crude word.
If you believe calling someone weird is a compliment, please reconsider your awfully uneducated stance (or, definition).
There are much prettier, much subtler, much more flattering ways to compliment someone for their eccentricities.
Of course, these last two paragraphs have been aimed at the proverbial stereotype of the “good” weird (“you’re weird, but in a good way”). You cannot take a word devoid of good properties and instill within it good. This is mere trickery, smoke and mirrors, a lie.
There is something at the bottom of every new human thought, every thought of genius, or even every earnest thought that springs up in any brain, which can never be communicated to others, even if one were to write volumes about it and were explaining one’s idea for thirty-five years; there’s something left which cannot be induced to emerge from your brain, and remains with you forever; and with it you will die, without communicating to anyone perhaps the most important of your ideas.
The Idiot by Fyodor Mikhaylovich Dostoyevsky (via sleepwithacoffeeinhand)