So, I’m standing there, staring at the back of my own head, and all I can think is, Well, crap. Not again.
This was the third time this week that I’d found myself suddenly staring at… well, at myself, and it was starting to get weird. And I’m not “looking at myself” like I’m using a mirror to brush my teeth or something. It’s like I black out for a moment and the next thing I know, I’m looking at myself from behind or I’m watching myself from the other side of the room. It’s been happening off and on for the last few months and it’s starting to get weird.
This one time, I blacked out and then I found myself on my neighbor’s apartment balcony, two stories up, looking down through my apartment’s bathroom window and watching myself shower. It was super creepy and I really should put some curtains up, now that I think about it.
I always wondered why old Mrs. Havershaw spends so much time out on her balcony…
Anyway, the point is, I keep finding myself outside of myself, looking at myself. That doesn’t seem normal. That’s not normal, right?
I don’t think that’s normal.
And you know what the weirdest part is? The weirdest part is that I never acknowledge myself. Like, the other me, the one I’m looking at? That me doesn’t ever seem to notice this me. That seems weird to me. It seems like I should notice if suddenly there’s another me standing there, staring at myself.
Man, this gets complicated to talk about… too many mes, Is, and myselfs.
And every time it happens, I’m stuck there, staring at myself, for longer and longer. The last time this happened, I was stuck watching myself sleep for three hours. Not only was that, like, really boring, but I started to feel like a creeper. I mean, I know it’s probably not normal to watch yourself sleep for three hours. Not that watching someone else sleep for three hours would be super normal either. Watching someone sleep is creepy either way, really.
So yeah. There I am, staring at the back of my head as I sit at my little kitchen table eating my cereal and scrolling through Facebook on my phone. I figure it must be Saturday because I’m in my boxers and I’m wearing my Saturday socks. You know… my Saturday socks? That old, soft pair with the red rings at the top and the elastic that’s just about shot? I love those socks, man. I look forward to wearing those socks all week long. No matter how rough the week gets with traffic and overtime and paperwork and weird side-effects or whatever, I know it’s going to be ok because on Saturday I’ll get to wear my Saturday socks. And nothing can go wrong with the world when I’m wearing my Saturday socks.
Except now something has, I guess, because there I am, staring at myself staring at my phone while wearing those saggy, red-ringer socks. And that’s not right, man. That’s not how Saturdays are supposed to go, you know? You’re not supposed to spend Saturday morning watching yourself surf Facebook in your boxers.
At least I don’t think so. I have trouble remembering what’s “normal” these days…
What was I saying? Oh, yeah, the socks. So, I look down at my feet. Not me-at-the-table’s feet–my own feet–and I’m not wearing my Saturday socks. I’m not wearing any socks, in fact. Which is kind of weird since it’s obviously Saturday and, as we’ve discussed, on Saturday I wear my Saturday socks but it could have something to do with the fact that my socks aren’t really made to fit giant chicken feet.
“What the… !?” I shout, staring at my chicken feet. “WHAT. The. EFF!?”
“I know, right?” says a familiar voice. “That’s probably not normal.”
I practically jump out of my skin and spin around, striking my best Saturday morning cartoon kung-fu defensive pose which is only slightly ruined by the whole “tripping over my newly discovered chicken feet” thing. Don’t judge. You try suddenly having chicken feet and see how Jackie Chan you are.
So I spin around and, facing me, leaning back against the kitchen counter holding a cup of coffee is… well, me. Another me. Only this me doesn’t have chicken feet. THIS me gets to wear my Saturday socks, the lucky jerk. I mean, yeah, he does have these giant tusks sticking out of his bottom jaw but his feet just look so comfy in those socks.
I stare at myself–him–with wide-eyed surprise. He–I–the other me just looks down at his steaming cup of coffee sadly.
I have got to come up with some better pronouns or something if this is going to keep happening… Anyway.
“What… What are you doing here?” I stammer. “What am I doing here?” Which is kinda funny because, when you think about it, it’s kind of the same question, really. I mean, he’s me and I’m him and we’re both the guy at the table who still hasn’t looked up from Facebook. Man, do I really spend that much time just scrolling through Facebook? I’m starting to understand why people call it such a timesuck.
Tusk-me says to me, “No idea,” and offers me his coffee mug. “Here. It turns out I can’t actually drink it without spilling hot coffee on myself because of these stupid tusks.”
I move into the kitchen and take the coffee from him–me–whatever, and we stare at each other for a moment as I take a sip of coffee. It’s good. Strong, black, not too hot. Just the way I like it. Which I guess makes sense since I made it for me before realizing that I couldn’t drink it and giving it to me to drink instead.
“Thanks,” I say to myself as I look over at myself sitting at the table. The other me follows my gaze and we both stare at ourself staring at our phone.
“This…” I start to say.
“… is probably not normal?” the other me finishes for me, still staring at the original, comfy-sock-wearing me at the table.
“Yeah, probably not normal,” I agree. “I think someone would have mentioned it before if this were normal.”
“Yeah,” tusky-me says. “Like… I would have read about it somewhere or something.”
Suddenly, a thought strikes me. “Hey,” I say, “I wonder if…”
“It has something to do with that thing at work?” other me finishes. He shrugs. “Maybe? I don’t know.”
And that’s about when I–when you–showed up.
So no, I’m pretty sure this isn’t normal, but I’m not sure what to do about it besides wait it out. I’d offer myself–you–a cup of coffee but I’m not sure how you’d–I’d–hold it with those hooves. Thumbs seem important for holding things like coffee cups. But hey, at least you–I–have my Saturday socks on.
Man, it’s just not fair. Why am I the only one of me who doesn’t get to wear my Saturday socks?
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