Times I Felt Creepy

Every time I am in line behind someone who is purchasing something cool or noteworthy at the grocery store

Let me pose you this, sir: How can you lean on a shopping cart containing four bags of Brach’s Circus Peanuts, three bottles of Arbor Mist, and not one but two neon orange Funnoodles and not expect me to say something? I mean, you have clearly won the Life Jackpot because not only do you (presumably) have a valid, not-expired ID and access to a swimming pool, but you have the refined taste in old-fashioned candies that can only come from sepia summers spent with nurturing, Werther’s-commercial grandparents who don’t eat Salisbury steaks for dinner every night in the smoking section of the Porky’s All-You-Can-Eat and refer to their grandchildren as “those little shits.” I therefore want to know you and all of your secrets. To expedite that process, I will open my mouth and say something. Unfortunately, what comes out, in a voice that sounds like that of The Fonz, is, “I wanna go to your house eyyyy.” Not surprisingly, you, sir, do not confirm my creepy self-invite, but instead direct a sympathetic snort-laugh-hybrid in my general direction and avoid eye contact with me for the rest of the time we’re in line together. But you know what, fine, that’s cool. I’m just going to kind of reach over you here and pick out a pack of Orbit. No, you know what? Move over, I’m going for the three-pack tonight. You’re not the only one who can party. It’s going to be Gum Fest ‘011 in my parents’ front yard, baby, and we even have Porta-Potties just like Coachella because both of our bathrooms are out of commission, but don’t worry because the pipes are probably being fixed right now, like as we speak. But I guess we’re not exactly speaking, are we? And that’s probably for the best because I tend to spray spit everywhere when I try to talk with nine slices of gum in my mouth.

Any time I drive or walk past someone’s house and can see inside

Look, I’m sorry, but if you don’t want me to peek through your window, don’t hang those googly-eyed girl paintings from the 70s all over your walls. Don’t invite someone with an interesting haircut and good posture to sit on your wicker loveseat. Don’t place a bookshelf lined with Budweiser cans from the Cold War Era to Present in your dining room. Don’t have a dance party to “Mambo No. 5” in aerobics gear with all three of your obese friends and a hyper pug puppy. Don’t leave your TV on with She’s the Man playing at full volume. Don’t buy blinds that leave a quarter-inch gap even when they’re shut. Don’t buy semi-sheer curtains and leave them slightly parted. And if you don’t like my “creepy” rules, call the cops and let them tell you. Rules are rules.

The time a little person on roller skates brought me my drink at Sonic’s Happy Hour

So I’m at Sonic looking to score a Diet Cherry Limeade, and in complete violation of all my expectations re: everything, an African-American little person riding roller skates and wearing a nametag that reads “Lil Lenny” starts rolling towards my car. There is nothing in this world so delightful, and he knows it. Good on him. This experience is so delightful in fact, that as he approaches my window, I begin sweating profusely, which is the same creepy reaction of pure delight that I get from my Little Darling Box Set of Shirley Temple movies, which are all so uncomfortably cute that I can only handle watching them in twenty-minute increments. Anyhow, Lil Lenny hands me my drink and when he tells me my total, I get the shakes and drop a quarter between my seat and the center console, and I wedge my hand down there to feel around for it, all the while not breaking eye contact with him. In case you’re wondering, yes, there were more quarters in my cup holder, but my head wasn’t on right. I was too delighted. And just when I think things can’t get anymore delightful, Lil Lenny quips, “What’s wrong? A little short?” and I seriously start to shit my pants. Like, a little comes out. And, apropos of nothing: Fielding questions about a seemingly-inexplicable mid-day pants-change? Also creepy.

Every time I have a Juicy Eye spell

To clarify: I did not cry because you didn’t properly acknowledge and praise the booby cake I made for your baby shower (though we all talked about it afterward and everyone agreed that you really didn’t give me adequate props re: the startlingly-realistic nipple [fyi: I used a grapefruit Jelly Belly]). I did not cry when the old man with cat hair all over his shirt who works at Thrift Village refused to sell me the handbag from Monica Lewinsky’s line The Real Monica because it didn’t have a price tag, even after I offered to pay twenty dollars, which is way more than any of the other handbags there cost. I did not cry when the Papa John’s delivery guy forgot to give us parmesan packets. I did not cry during the Mother’s Day episode of Rugrats. I did not cry over that chain email about the Pillsbury Doughboy dying of a yeast infection. I wasn’t crying, okay? Sometimes my eyes just water. It’s called Juicy Eye. And it’s a condition. And everyone should really get off it because the thing about conditions is that if you make fun of someone with a condition, karma will see to it that you later develop a worse condition. For example, my brother used to tease me with the name Wheezy because I had mild asthma, but then he developed acid reflux and everyone started calling him Ashlee Simpson. I even heard about some jerk who made fun of a cancer kid and later developed Split Dick, which is exactly what it sounds like–two skinny tootsie-roll dicks where a regular-sized one used to be. That’s the universe for you. But let me tell you, if I ever had the good fortune to win a Young Life raffle and the prize was to eat at the Olive Garden with God and ask him one question, I wouldn’t even use my one question to ask God why the Olive Garden here sort of smells like dysentery diarrhea, which is a Great Mystery to us all. No, you know what I’d ask him? I’d ask him why he decided to afflict me with Juicy Eye. And he’d probably answer, “To make you feel creepy, Carly.” And I’d say, “Touché, God.” And then I’d feel nervous because I’d have to be careful to henceforth only speak in statements, or risk going to Hell. And then I’d probably start to shake and randomly well up and be forced to explain to the waiter that I’m not crying because I’m contemplating the infiniteness of Endless Soup, Salad, and Breadsticks. Not this time. Nor, waiter, am I crying because I can’t talk to cool dudes without sounding like The Fonz, nor because I shit myself at Sonic, nor because I’m too weird to function and even God doesn’t care. I’m not crying, okay? It’s a creepy condition, and it’s how God made me. He’s sitting right there. Why don’t you ask him eyyyy? TC mark

image – Nosferatu

More From Thought Catalog

  • newbornrodeo

    every time you see a 10-year-old who you observe will be hot when they’re older

    • Adrian Rojas

      Dude, infants.

    • Aelya

      ALL THE TIME

    • http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1363230138 Michael Koh

      oh boy

    • paige

      i have never spoken of this to anyone in fear of becoming The Extreme Creep.

    • mexifrida

      Doesn’t everybody do that?…

  • http://twitter.com/maggie44 Maggie Lee

    every time i pass the kid whose formspring i wrote on “i like your hair curly better than straight” two years ago.  why did i write that?  now i just feel secretive and creepy for the dumbest reward, which i guess was his response: “oh okay”

  • Christyn

    Oh my god-the Rugrats Mother’s Day episode! That’s when my Juicy Eye flares up.
    ps: I enjoyed this.

  • http://twitter.com/sophiakiona Sophia Anderson

    “For example, my brother used to tease me with the name Wheezy because I
    had mild asthma, but then he developed acid reflux and everyone started
    calling him Ashlee Simpson.”

    I’m gonna be real for a minute and tell you that this line made me laugh harder than anything else that I have seen today. I don’t think anything is going to top it.

  • fulldamage

    This made my whole day better.  Possibly my whole life.  Thanks!  :) 

  • http://twitter.com/SisterSoda Eva

    the Nosferatu pic is so much win

  • Im_dawn

    Oh my god I laughed so hard at the “little short?” part and the shitting yourself part-I got juicy eyed!!!! Hilarious

  • Megan

    this is so funny YOU ARE SO FUNNY

    • http://fastfoodies.org Briana

      SECOND FAVORITE TC WRITER OF ALL TIME, second only to megan boyle wherever the balls she is.

      • http://twitter.com/cjhallman Carly J Hallman

        I sorta <3 Megan Boyle, so that's a huge compliment. :)

  • evie

    I liked the ending. The whole thing itself was a pretty good read, but the end just did it for me.. Enough to even make me comment :) xD

  • Mr Shankly

    Do americans actually call people with primordial dwarfism ‘little people’? Legit query.

    • Greg

      Yes.

    • dorothytortoise

      yeah dude. though R.Kelly still uses the term “midget” 

    • http://maxwellchance.wordpress.com Duke Holland of Gishmale

      Do people not from American call little people ‘people with primordial dwarfism’? Also a legit query. 

      • Mr Shankly

        I’d probably err towards ‘dwarf’, or just use their name. Do people from America call obese people ‘large people’, then? 

      • http://maxwellchance.wordpress.com Duke Holland of Gishmale

        Almost everyone in America is obese and we’re all comfortable with it. It’s really just a small minority that is not obese. We call ’em the skinny fritters. 

      • http://staugustinian.wordpress.com/ STaugustine

        Finally, someone admits it in “public”!

  • andy

    omg date me.

    • http://maxwellchance.wordpress.com Duke Holland of Gishmale

      No me!

      • http://twitter.com/cjhallman Carly J Hallman

        Let’s all date.

  • http://maxwellchance.wordpress.com Duke Holland of Gishmale

    “I wanna go to your house eyyyy.”
    LOL’ed to the max right there. 

    • http://maxwellchance.wordpress.com Duke Holland of Gishmale

      Alright, I’m starting to feel creepy with all my comments, but I don’t give a shit, this was awesome. So, my first comment was well before I finished this–actually right towards the beginning, you know, where the “I wanna go to your house eyyyy,” was. But this was fucking awesome. Thank you for kissing my soul your delicious humor. 

  • dorothytortoise

    I felt creepy laughing alone in my room while reading this article.

  • http://somuchtocome.blogspot.com Aja

    Made me snort laugh.  I love that inappropriate moment when you speak to a stranger at the grocery store and realize they aren’t down to chat.  Love it.

  • inflammatorywrit

    You are me (creeping all the time, you know), but one thousand times funnier. This was absolutely hilarious.

  • Chloe

    CJ = THE BEST. I lol every time. You and Ryan should write the whole site!

    • http://twitter.com/MissKimball misskimball

      I agree with you about CJ, this was great. Not sure about more ryan though

  • http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1363230138 Michael Koh

    bro… you forgot ‘not really following the guy in front of you to the bathroom but following him because you need to use the bathroom too and taking the stall next to him because every single stall+urinal but those two are occupied’

    • http://twitter.com/cjhallman Carly J Hallman

      I’ve never even used a urinal that I can remember :/

  • sap

    I just watched the Mother’s Day Rugrat’s episode and I was definitely crying.

  • bret

    lil lenny = gay black little person in gummo???

    y/n

    • http://twitter.com/cjhallman Carly J Hallman

      N, but I just watched the trailer on imdb and when my life gets optioned for a film, that actor or his son or grandson should be cast as Lil Lenny, I think.

  • http://www.facebook.com/earthtonichole EarthToNichole

    every time i send thought catalog writers random FB messages declaring my love for them.

    • http://twitter.com/cjhallman Carly J Hallman

      I haven’t received any creepy FB messages yet. But I won’t give up hope :/

      • http://www.facebook.com/earthtonichole EarthToNichole

        I’ve been sober the past few days. Just give it time.

  • anon

    hahhaa

  • http://staugustinian.wordpress.com/ STaugustine

    There are more interesting writers here than there are on HTMLGIANT. But there are more writers who wear WRITER SHIRTS (probably) at HTMLGIANT.

    • http://twitter.com/MissKimball misskimball

      htmlgiant is more about bitter feuds amongst the commenters. they have epic battles a bit like the rap offs in that eminem movie over who can use the most obscure grammatical construct. it is so needy. they are very easy to troll but then you have to apologise and say something positive about their work in case they kill themselves

      • http://staugustinian.wordpress.com/ STaugustine

        Oh, the bitter feuds (which sometimes generate good writing while inspiring interesting discourse ) I like… it’s just the pretentious “my mediocre copy-of-a-copy lit has been published by an obscure press/zine and I have sold fifty copies and you may now consider me a colleague of Jack Kerouac’s” OP’ers I object to.  Thought Catalog just pumps stuff out without pretense and while some of the material is awful (while not making many claims otherwise), and a lot is disposable… a decent percentage of it is good stuff… fresh, clever, writerly (ie, not just lazily cliche-conversational).

    • http://maaaaaan.tumblr.com/ wackomet

      htmlgiant is generally about writers/writing in the realm of ‘literature’

      thoughtcatalog is generally ‘light reading’ about ‘anything’

      the better question is how are these two sites the same

      • http://staugustinian.wordpress.com/ STaugustine

        “There are more interesting writers here than there are on HTMLGIANT.”

        That was my comparison. I’m not interested in the artificial authorial distinctions  reflected by the supposed intent of site X versus that of site Y.  If Virginia Woolf and Italo Calvino are in room 217 and Alice Munro and Kilgore Trout are in room 237, I can assert that I find the writers in one of the rooms more interesting than those in the other, despite possible essential differences between the actual rooms, no?

        And how does one write “in the realm of literature” (as opposed to out of it)? Maybe that’s an oblique reference to WRITER SHIRTS…?

      • http://maaaaaan.tumblr.com/ wackomet

        you win

      • http://staugustinian.wordpress.com/ STaugustine

        It’s a bittersweet victory.

  • Justin Smith

    Good work.

  • Guest

    SO DAMN FUNNY

  • Guest

    SO DAMN FUNNY

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