Unless there is some sort of bugzapper-type freak-repelling deviceavailable of which I am not aware,I’m afraid I’m going to just have tolog this stuff in my diary and some-how deal with attracting the crazies.
I guess the only problem with being“fly paper for freaks” is, well … being“fly paper for freaks.” Everyone makes jokes about attracting the crazies, but let me tell you something, you actually have no idea what that means until you spend a week with good ole me.I guess it all started when I was about9 years old. There was a man who livedabout a half mile from my house namedJimmy Freeman. I don’t have to changehis name to protect the crazy, because he’sabout 3,000 miles away now, in a “special”place for other people like him.Anyway, Jimmy Freeman tried to kidnapme. Given, it was poorly executed. Thenagain, I guess it was the best a crazy personcould come up with. What exactly does apsycho say to himself when he’s plotting akidnapping? “This huge family is havinga party outside, this is the perfect timeto drive slowly by and try to kidnap thisfreakishly tall 9-year-old while everyoneis looking at me,” or something like that.Plans were foiled when my dad saw whatwas happening and picked up the firstthing he could find (which happened to bea roller skate — true story) and hurled itat his windshield. This may seem crazy initself but let me tell you, my dad is about6’6 and all American Indian, so he slippedinto Cherokee warrior mode and literally chased him down the street. No worries,the roller skate flying at his head at 90 miles per hour made him drop me and focus on “The Great Escape” which consistedof him driving the half mile to his house and running inside like he wasn’t about to receive the beat-down of his life. I’ll leave the rest of that story to your imagination.Fast forward to The Mall in Longview,Texas, at about 15 years old with my friend Kristina. All we wanted to do was be seen.That’s what 15-wannabe-25-year-olds do,right? Go to the mall and pretend we’re the “bomb-diggity” and everyone wantsto be us. Ha. Apparently we caught the eye of some random English “filmmakers”who thought we were perfect for the “role”they were casting. We said no, of course,but in the middle of us saying “no,” these so-called stars of English stage and screen were busted by the local P.D. for runningthe largest child porn ring in the tri-state area. Not sure if you’ve noticed, but Texas is a pretty big state.This is followed by a few years of abona-fide Internet stalker who was also a
“preacher” with — ready for this? — seven kids! I suspect there was a compound-type family involved in there somewhere, but I didn’t research, and frankly, I’d rather not know.Then there was my first trip to visit my brother here in Beaufort , when my friend and I got the GRAND idea to ride a Greyhound Bus because “it’ll bean adventure!” I guess I can partially take the blame for the crazies I met on that trip because, let’s face it, it’s a Greyhound Bus. I also think my parents should take some amount of blame for ALLOWING this hair-brained scheme to evolve into actual reality. You can just say the words“Greyhound Bus” and freaks will come out of the walls. Really, just try it.Anyway, on that lovely trip we met a man named Bubba (that was really his name) and he was from Georgia. He took up both seats on his row, and I don’t mean with his luggage. It is what it is,I’m just saying, he was my first marriage
proposal. (It was tough, but I said no.) I also met a rapper who wanted to put my name in his song, so if you hear a song thattalks about “Nora,” that’s all me. Jealous?Don’t be. He changed his destination toBeaufort because he said “we were meantto be together, and I was his muse.” I had to call the police the minute we arrivedin Beaufort because he wouldn’t stop following me. Nope, you can’t make this stuff up.In the years after, I got held at gunpoint by guerillas in the jungles of Belize;followed and accused of being a drug-lord in the small Mexican town of Reynosa (if you knew me, this would be more funny than scary); and was once held at customs in Honduras because they thought I was Honduran and trying to sneak into the states. Yep, you caught me. The only 6-foot-tall blonde Honduran in history,trying to sneak into the Unite States …damn. Plans foiled again.Believe it or not, the list goes on. Yes, I’malmost 30, so there is TONS more freak activity in my life, but unless there is some sort of bug zapper-type freak-repellingdevice available of which I am not aware,I’m afraid I’m going to have to just log this stuff in my personal diary and deal with it.Stay tuned, I’m about to start selling tickets to this freak-show! Oh, and ifyou’re one of “them” — you know, one of the freaks — stop it.