"Good God, you're normal! And so am I." I replied to a comment on a facebook post comparing how normal people shopped in bookstores and how bookworms did.
I go straight to the section I'm interested in and check out those aisles.
The lady whose comment I replied to was somehow offended, or defensive, commenting twice giving excuses about how she wasn't. It seemed like the very word normal was somehow offending her.
I found myself questioning what was so wrong about being normal, recalling the time how my ears wished to hear that word, how my eyes longed to see the word 'normal' on my test results. The word normal was a blessing for me, a blessing I couldn't get my hands on.
Oh, how I yearned to be just normal. But the results didn't show the magic word, instead the necrosis had spread and there was no other way than to amputate my foot from my ankle.
I have forgotten how it must feel to wear shoes and have something to put in them too.
I bet normal people do.
P.S. I haven't gotten a prosthetic yet.
P.P.S. Don't badmouth the lady, she apologized profusely, even though it wasn't her fault!
